The morning sun crested the eastern peaks, pouring liquid gold over the tiled pavilions and mist-veiled terraces of the Sanatan Flame Sect. Saffron banners emblazoned with the revolving Sudarshan Chakra snapped in the alpine breeze, their golden threads glinting with the dawn. Dew-slick flagstones carried the intermingled scents of mountain ozone, smoldering sandalwood, crushed medicinal herbs, and freshly split masonry.
A single bronze bell resonated across the valley. Its note rolled through the courtyards in a slow, tranquil wave—not sounding a panicked rallying cry, nor a martial summons, but marking the rhythm of an unhurried morning.
