Fire and Frost

The valley held its breath.

A rare hush had fallen over the camp — not silence, but a lull. Like the hush before thunder. Somewhere outside, the wind picked at tarpaulin tents, stirred prayer flags, and rattled stray bullet casings that hadn't been cleared from the gravel walkways. The air was laced with chai, smoke, and the sharp tang of gun oil.

Anika walked slowly toward the old school building that now functioned as the army's temporary command centre. Her report was folded neatly in her hand — the one she had rewritten three times and still wasn't sure about. The one about the boy.

Morning light fell softly over the compound, clear and unforgiving. The hum of radio chatter drifted from open windows. Soldiers moved with purpose, their routines already in full swing.

A few paces behind her, the assigned guard from Dhruv's unit followed silently. He didn't hover, but his presence was constant — respectful, watchful. She was no longer just a guest, and the rules had shifted accordingly.

As she approached the entrance, two soldiers stepped into her path — not unkindly, but with the quiet authority that left little room for argument.

The guard trailing her stopped, saying nothing.

"Ma'am," one said, polite but firm. "Need to check you."

She blinked. "I was here earlier—"

"Standard protocol. Orders are tighter after this morning."

She nodded without protest and raised her arms.

They scanned her quickly — backpack unzipped, phone removed, pockets emptied. A brief pat-down by a female officer followed. One of the guards raised an eyebrow at the folded sheet she carried, but said nothing.

When they were done, the taller of the two nodded.

"You can go in. But an escort will accompany you."

A young soldier stepped forward — barely older than twenty, his expression serious and stiff with nerves. His name tag read K. Tiwari.

Anika offered him a faint, grateful nod. "Of course."

They walked the rest of the way in silence. The old school hallways were dim, lit by low-watt bulbs and the slanting afternoon sun cutting in through barred windows. Chalk dust still lingered in the corners. Cracks ran like veins across the walls.

Outside Major Oberoi's office, she stopped. So did the soldier.

"You can wait here," she said softly.

He nodded once. "Yes, ma'am."

She hesitated at the door — then knocked gently.

No answer.

She hesitated for a moment longer, fingers brushing the edge of the doorframe.

Then, quietly, she pushed it open.

The command room was dim, washed in the pale gold of the early morning sun leaking through the torn curtains. Dust hung in the air, still and slow, as if even the particles knew not to disturb this silence.

Inside, Major Shivaay Singh Oberoi lay on a thin mattress rolled out in the corner of the room. Not a bed. Not even a cot. Just fabric over concrete. His boots were still on, laces loosened but not undone. His belt sat slack around his waist, the holster still clipped. His rifle was within arm's reach, propped carefully against a wooden crate. The radio beside him crackled softly — intermittent bursts of static and codes from some faraway unit.