The Burden of Saving Tashī Dalāi-Ch. 1.0


    The Jade Chakra Dragon thundered first; her glimmering surface shimmered and rippled like liquid light, slicing through the skies as the avalanche roared and crashed below.


    Thud! The violet, barky text-block manuscript slipped from my hands and struck the soft, deep snow.


    My heart jumped as the sound rang out—a sharp, rumbling clatter that shouldn’t have been possible.


    Drakos froze, his ears pinned back, a low growl rumbling in his throat.


    I stiffened,my breath hitching, and my fingers instinctively twitched as if trying to grasp the fallen grimoire.


    But there was no thud. At least, not as it should have been. The noise swelled unnaturally, echoing through the icy air like a bell tolling a warning.


    My stomach churned, a cold knot twisting deeper with every beat of the reverberation.


    Emblazoned on the cover, its title seemed to glare at me, heavy with disapproval: Grimoire of the Chronicle Stages of Dying and Living.


    Snowflakes scattered around the grimoire, the pristine surface now marred by my carelessness.


    Drakos barked, his tone sharp and insistent. His ears flattened, and he circled the book as if it were alive, something dangerous.


    A chill crawled up my spine, but it wasn’t from the cold.


    Master’s head turned toward me, her gaze settling on the fallen text.


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    She said nothing, didn’t so much as frown. Instead, she closed her eyes and began to chant, low and steady at first, then rising in intensity. Her voice cut through the storm, resonating in a way I didn’t understand but could feel deep in my chest. This was no ordinary chant—it was raw, commanding.


    And then the sky split open.


    They called me a jinx, a walking curse—a Harbinger of Doom. In my hometown, they spat the words like venom: Wretched Witch. The truth they believed about me cut deep, like a blade slicing through the brittle air.


    I shouldn’t have defied my grandmother, no matter the shadow her lineage cast over me. Or my mother, who begged me to stay behind. If I had obeyed, worked quietly as a kitchen hand in Master’s practice house, none of this would be happening.


    But no. I had to beg Master to bring me and Drakos along. To climb these cursed Himalayan peaks. To try and save Tashī Dalāi’s soul—or his life, or whatever bound me to this impossible mission.


    The storm screamed around us, biting through my patched parka and into my skin. My shawl flapped wildly as I gripped it tighter around my shoulders. Loose strands of raven-black hair stuck to my wind-burned cheeks, flushed red against the olive tone of my skin. The air burned my lungs, my breath a pale fog that vanished as quickly as it came.


    My eyes, darkened to shades of brown and blue by the storm’s fury, seemed sharper, more almond-shaped—like the crisis itself had carved them this way. The irises caught the faint light and swirling snow, wide, frantic, searching. My lips quivered, already cracked and bloodied from the cold.


    I looked like a stray goat caught in a blizzard—fragile, out of place. My boots barely clung to my feet, soaked and scuffed from days of trudging through snow. Even my grandmother’s woven tunic beneath the parka was soaked, heavy against my thin frame.


    The worst part? I’d dragged them both into this—Master, unshakable as the mountains, and Drakos, his barking sharp and nervous as he circled my feet.


    The weight of my guilt pressed harder than the avalanche that roared in the distance. My chest tightened as I stared at the jagged peaks, their shadows cast like judges over me.


    “Get a grip,” I whispered, but my voice was swallowed by the wind. My nails bit into my palms through the coarse wool of my gloves. Deep down, I knew—I was no heroine. Just a stubborn girl from the snowy mountains, leading us all toward ruin.