Humans are fools to think death is some grand human event. No, it's nature. Just as nature controls the birthing of every tiny thing whether it be water, soil, rock, flower, or grass; death too is in its hands. Nobody sits around planning their own demise. Nature doesn't ask. It simply coils its fingers, tightens its grip, and drifts the person away, leaving only mourning in its wake.

Who says death is just another phase of human life? Whoever says that is a fool. Death is horrific. Even if it merges the body into the soil, leaving the soul to wait for its next body, death is horrific. The person who dies may be on the journey to a new life, but the people left behind? They die in his absence. They feel the real death, the one that is terrifying.

Time teaches them to live, yes. But it doesn't erase the pain of the loss. Death and time are cruel allies. They operate on their own terms. Uncontrollable. Spontaneous. Majestic in their power, but painful. So painfully real. The person who remains breathes thousands of breaths a day, counting them with the miserable hope that one of them will be the last, so they can follow the one they've lost. But time laughs at the misery, watches with cold eyes as they wait, helpless. Time is the ultimate predator. It drags the living along with it, forcing them to carry the weight of death while the dead are free, floating in some unfathomable place.

Vikramaditya dismounts from Hayagriva. Ahead, the mountains stretch endlessly into the horizon, veiled in mist like a vision half-formed in a dream.

He takes a breath, scanning the path before him. It is wild country. Untamed and uncertain.