Rogue barked loud enough to scare the snow off the pine.

"Control your son," Manik muttered, stuffing the last of the tent sheet into the bag with one hand and rubbing his temple with the other.

Nandini was already lacing up her boots. "He was cold."

"He bit my sock and peed on the zipper."

She didn't respond, just reached out and zipped up her jacket. Her fingers were red from the cold. Still no gloves.

"Would it kill you to say last night was a mess?" he asked, strapping on his bag.

"You are overreacting, Cadet."

"I am overreacting! Wow!."

She looked up, that usual flicker of pride tucked in the corner of her eye. "You didn't seem to mind when you were holding Pongo like a baby."

"That was self-defense."

"You were humming lullabies."

He paused. "I was not."

"You were," she smirked, dusting off the snow from her knees and walking ahead like the climb meant nothing.

The trail was not friendly anymore. Ice had crept in under the snow, and every step made a crunch that felt personal. She didn't complain — that was expected. What Manik noticed was the way she exhaled every ten minutes a little too long. The small limp in her left foot she was pretending not to have. And the way she refused to slow down even when her breath turned visible again.

"Nandini," he called.

She didn't turn.

"Stop being so... dramatic about not being dramatic."

She stopped. Stood there. Then without turning, said, "I'm fine."

"No, you aren't. You just keep walking like you'll reach the top out of pure ego."

"You mean willpower."

"I mean ego."

She turned now, pushing her hood back. The cold had flushed her cheeks pink.

"You think I can't do it?"

"I know you can," he said, closing the distance. "That's not the point. The point is—"

"You don't like being outrun by a commoner," she cut in, wiping her nose with her sleeve like a kid.

"I don't like seeing you punish yourself to prove a point that doesn't need proving."

She looked away for a second. "Some of us don't have the luxury to just... rest."

There it was.

Manik didn't argue. Just sighed and adjusted the straps on her bag without asking. "Take a sip of water."

"You'll have to carry me if I collapse."

He held out the bottle. "I've carried worse. Harshad snores and weighs like a sack of rice."

Pongo barked as if seconding that.

She finally took the water. And walked beside him this time. Rogue charged ahead like a soldier with a mission, Pongo trailing behind sniffing rocks like buried treasure.

No one said anything for a while. But their steps fell in sync. And for once, she didn't try to walk ahead.

________________________________________________

The oak-paneled boardroom was unusually full, and unusually quiet.

Rishi walked in a minute before the scheduled time, nodded politely to the board, and took his seat beside Mr. Narula. Madhav was already there, seated at the head. He didn't look at his son — hadn't, all morning.

On the table, the agenda read: "Austria Expansion: Immediate Executive Transition Plan." Translation: Move Rishi out. From the helm. From India. From Nandini.

Mr. Balan, the CFO, spoke first, flipping open a folder. "We've reviewed the draft for the Austria operations restructuring. Given the transition risk and tight timelines, it's critical we have someone with maturity and insight. Mr. Murthy has recommended Rishi take direct charge. On-site."

There was mild, polite agreement. One or two board members glanced at Rishi, gauging his response.

He smiled — not defiant, just firm. "I appreciate the trust, but I believe it's premature to shift the nerve center of this expansion before domestic realignment stabilizes."

Madhav's eyes flicked up, cold. Rishi continued without blinking.

"I've personally been working on the northeast corridor. If I move now, we risk derailing three timelines. I propose we designate Austria transition to the local team, with me overseeing it remotely until Q3. By then, we'll have a stronger domestic foothold and lower transition friction."

There was a pause — the kind where everyone wants to nod but waits for someone else to do it first.

Finally, Ms. Sharma, a long-time board member, tapped her pen thoughtfully. "I see merit in that. We're too close to launch for sudden relocations."

A few others murmured in agreement. The tide had shifted. The board wasn't just listening — they were aligning.

Madhav leaned back slowly; hands folded across his chest. "So, the board now takes advice from a boy who let personal attachments cloud his judgment?"

No one moved. Rishi's expression didn't change.

"This isn't about sentiment," Rishi said quietly. "It's about leadership. And knowing when to stay still."

That struck.

Madhav didn't explode. He smiled. But not the warm kind — the one that folded inwards.

"Well, perhaps we do need to reconsider who's running what," he said, voice smooth. "Too much power in one place spoils structure."

That was his checkmate. Not a command. A threat of slow erosion.

But Rishi wasn't rattled. He stood, gathered his notes, and turned to the board.

"I look forward to working with the team on the revised plan."

He glanced at his father then — not as a son, but as a man.

"I'm not going anywhere."

He walked out before the meeting adjourned. Calm, clear, unshaken.

And for the first time, the board looked at him not as Madhav Murthy's son — but as the man who just might redefine the Murthy legacy.

_____________________________________________________

The chandeliered laughter echoed off the walls like an old tune Rishita no longer remembered how to dance to. The ladies' kitty was in full swing — faux pearls, louder perfumes, and stories about whose son just got an Ivy League admit, and whose husband bought her diamonds to make up for "boys' night outs."

Once, Rishita had sat among them with pride. Today, her smile felt borrowed.

Someone passed her a fresh mocktail; she took it, barely sipping. One woman leaned closer and whispered, "Rishita, your saree is lovely. Madhav has such good taste."

She nodded politely. How could she share that her husband never cared what wore.

Another chimed in, "Heard Rishi is moving to Austria? Big step! Though I always thought Nandini would ruin the Murthy name. Common blood shows eventually, doesn't it?"

The straw slipped from Rishita's fingers. She bent slowly to pick it up and rose with the kind of silence that makes a room blink. Her blood boiled and she wanted to smash the neatly arranged glasses on the table to shush the noise. However, she chose to walk away with grace.

"I just remembered something," she said, voice calm, smile still intact — but eyes elsewhere.

She walked out, heels echoing against marble, not fast, but with a purpose even she hadn't yet defined.

Rishita didn't know why she took the left turn instead of the right that led home. Her heels clicked against the pavement in a rhythm faster than her thoughts could catch. The kitty party had left her oddly breathless crowded with the kind of noise that made her feel more alone.

The Singh residence stood like it always had—neatly kept; a patch of lavender still stubborn near the gate despite the cold. She hesitated. The last time she had come near this house, it hadn't been with kindness in her heart. And she knew Sahiba hadn't forgotten.

Still, she rang the bell.

Mrs. Singh opened the door, a fleck of flour on her sweater. Surprise flickered across her face before she masked it with quiet civility.

"Rishita," she said, voice measured. "Is everything alright?"

"No," Rishita said quickly. "I was just... around." She immediately regretted how weak it sounded.

There was a pause long enough to feel real.

Mrs. Singh stepped aside. "Well, come in. It's too cold for whatever this is."

Rishita entered, eyes taking in the humble warmth. The home was modest—baking trays on the side, a teacup left half full near the window. It looked lived in. Loved in. Nothing like her manicured silence back home.

They sat in the drawing room. No offer of tea yet. No small talk. Just the cautious pause between two women who had only known each other through their husbands' handshakes and their own polite smiles at formal dinners.

"I heard Nandini is still staying at the cottage," Rishita finally said. She meant it as an observation. It came out like a confession.

"She's independent," Mrs. Singh said, tone even. "She always was."

Another pause. Rishita fiddled with her ring. She wondered how another woman knew her daughter better than she ever could.

"I wasn't very kind, last time we met."

"No," Mrs. Singh replied simply, her hands folding in her lap.

Honesty cuts sharper than any attempt at politeness.

"I don't know why I'm here," Rishita added, softer. "I just couldn't stay in that party any longer. Everyone talking over each other, nothing real. I felt like a... guest in my own life."

Mrs. Singh studied her, not offering sympathy but something firmer.

"You weren't like that before. Years ago, when you first came to the hills. I remember. You asked about the trees, the bakery that had shut down, the names of the neighborhood dogs."

Rishita blinked. She didn't know Mrs. Singh had noticed her at all.

"Then I became Madhav Murthy's wife," she said bitterly. "And forgot my first name."

Mrs. Singh finally softened. "That's the hard part. Remembering it again."

She stood. "Would you like some tea? I'm baking plum cake; you'll have to excuse the mess."

Rishita nodded.

Not because she wanted tea. But because, for the first time in weeks, someone had spoken to her without a script.

And that felt like something worth staying for.

______________________________________

The fire was tame now. Not roaring, just breathing slow. Manik had done his usual—tightened the tent pegs twice, stacked logs at the corner like a ritual, and tied Rogue's leash with the care of a soldier. She'd been gone all that while, wandering near the creek, letting the water numb her toes and thoughts.

When she came back, Manik didn't look up. He was seated on a rock, legs apart, elbows resting on his knees, gaze fixed on the flames. But he felt her presence like he always did. A static in the air. A shift in temperature. Nandini didn't make sound. She didn't need to.

She dropped her wet boots outside the tent and stepped closer barefoot, hair damp, cheeks red from the wind. Her eyes—they were on him.

Not on the fire. Not the pups. Not the forest curling around them. Him.

She watched him untangle Pongo's paws gently, lifting the little guy into the bedroll, muttering something under his breath. Her eyes didn't blink. Something about the way he handled softness—like he wasn't meant for it, but made it his—made her chest feel heavier than it should.

He turned, caught her staring.

"You're creepy," he said, voice dry. "Stop looking like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm edible."

"You are."

He chuckled, half-exasperated. "You're exhausting."

She shrugged, walking toward him. "You're mine."

She was beside him now. And he was suddenly too aware of himself. His fingers twitched. His neck stiffened. Her presence did that—always had. Not because she came close. But because she meant it.

She tugged at his jacket—slowly, one finger, one pull. Then she stepped into it, stepping into him, almost carelessly. As if this was routine.

He stilled. Arms hovered mid-air again.

"You gonna hold me or... just wait for the fire to ask permission?" she whispered.

He exhaled. And gave in.

His arms folded around her, the jacket cocooning both. Her fingers crept inside the hem of his thermal again, this time less playful, more deliberate. Mapping him like a memory she wasn't done with.

His breath hitched. Her palms settled on his waist, fingers moving just enough to make him twitch.

"Nandini—"

She looked up, unreadable.

"I won't do anything," she said. "Don't be afraid, cadet."

He was flushed now. Completely thrown.

And she—she was too calm. Too still. Like she wasn't breaking a rule. Just living in it.

But it shifted when he moved.

He didn't kiss her. Didn't go for the obvious.

He pressed his lips just below her jaw, where her neck met her shoulder. No pressure. Just presence.

She flinched.

Her breath caught.

Her fingers tightened.

Manik didn't move again. But his silence was heavy now. Like he was trying not to.

She looked up. For a second, her eyes said it. Don't stop.

But he did. Because he had to. Because he always had.

He pulled her closer instead, settling her into his lap, wrapping the jacket tighter. His chin rested on her shoulder now, and her cheek brushed his jaw.

They didn't speak.

Pongo let out a dream-whimper. Rogue dug a small hole near the flap and flopped on it.

The fire crackled.

She pressed her lips to the side of his neck—nothing more. Not passion. Not teasing. Just a reminder.

And he closed his eyes, like that touch was too much.

They didn't sleep for a long time. But they didn't move either.

High, unsettled. Unkissed. But never closer.

___________________________________________

The room carried its usual scent—old leather, ink, and the faint musk of years gone by. The window, slightly ajar, let in a crisp drift from the hills beyond. Outside, the cadets were wrapping up their drills. But inside, it was still.

Col. Singh sat behind his teakwood desk, fingers trailing over the edges of a weathered file—the kind that had seen too many batches, too many farewells.

He flipped it open. Cadet Manik Malhotra.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Not a proud smile. Not indulgent. Just... one of those rare ones that come from watching a story unfold the way it was meant to. No drama. No shortcuts. Just grit.

He scanned the grades—tactical evaluations, endurance, marksmanship, terrain manoeuvres. Neat ticks. Clean distinctions. But it wasn't the numbers that made Manik stand out.

It was the pauses in between—the reports where instructors wrote things like "Doesn't just follow orders. Thinks ahead." Or "Refuses shortcuts. Asks questions others don't." Or simply, "Respected by peers, not feared."

The Colonel leaned back, exhaling softly.

"Six months," he murmured to himself.

Six months to the end of this batch's journey. The arm selection process would begin soon. Some would hope for Infantry, some Artillery. Others would eye Signals, Engineers, or the quieter branches that didn't shine as much in war movies, but held the Army's spine.

And Manik?

He wasn't the loud kind. He wasn't born to charge recklessly into chaos. He was a storm held in precision—one that chose control over aggression. A boy who came in with discipline in his blood and turned it into something finer. Something stronger.

Col. Singh reached for his tea—lukewarm now—and looked out the window. The parade ground lights blinked against the distant snowcaps.

In moments like this, the years felt fast. The noise, the complaints, the medals, the departures... they all rushed past him.

But some cadets stayed. Not in memory, but somewhere deeper. The way they walked, the way they held back when others rushed in, the way they quietly became something solid.

He looked down at Manik's file again.

"He'll do more than just wear the uniform," he muttered. "He'll honour it."

Another smile, this time fading quicker.

He closed the file gently, like one closes a chapter.

Tomorrow, the drills would continue. The cadence would return. The boys would run up the slopes like they always did.

But tonight, a quiet sense of certainty lingered.

One of them was ready.

__________________________________________

I am overwhelmed by the sheer reception ATE has received after years of absence. I am grateful and double-focused to deliver the next chapters consistently.

Do vote, comment, and engage! Don't forget to tell your favorite part from this update.

See you soon!

Love Aditi