Sikkim, 1914.
The air around Rabdentse Palace was thick with mountain mist, rolling in like ancient spirits eager to hear what the king would decree. Sidkeong Tulku Namgyal, cloaked in royal maroon and deep thought, walked the length of the stone corridor, flanked by monks and ministers.
"The Krombigran," he said, his voice echoing into the cold. "Disband them."
A silence fell so complete it felt like the mountain itself held its breath.
Lama Dhenzin, oldest among the spiritual advisors, stepped forward, eyes wide beneath his hood. "Your Majesty... the Krombigran are the unseen shield. Mist-born guardians of the kingdom since your forefather Phuntsog Namgyal summoned them. They are not merely warriors. They are memory."
Sidkeong's gaze hardened. "I am not afraid of shadows, Lama. I want my rule to be free of hidden watchers. Secrets fester. I will not carry their burden."
"The land remembers them, even if you do not," the Lama warned softly.
But Sidkeong had made up his mind. By royal decree, the Krombigran — spectral warriors who floated just above the ground, invisible but for a shimmer in the air — were dismissed. Once, they had flown through clouds, gathered whispers of coup attempts, and tracked the movements of enemies before a single blade was drawn. They protected the kingdom with quiet violence. And now, abandoned.
Days later, the king was dead. A heart attack, they said. Or something more ancient.
Time rolled forward. The Krombigran remained dormant — with no master, no memory, no purpose. Buried beneath rock, mist, and forgotten history.
A boutique Himalayan resort called Cloud 45 stood perched near the edge of a remote cliff known by locals as "Suicide Point." The name was enough to keep tourists away, but not Thrilok and his gang — Rahul, Vrithik, and Suneeha — college friends from Bangalore who thrived on the unexplained.
The four sat around a bonfire, surrounded by pine silhouettes and Himalayan silence, sipping tea as shadows danced.
“You guys heard the story of this place?” Thrilok asked, poking the fire with a stick.
“Here we go,” Suneeha groaned. “Is it another story where someone hears whispers and jumps off a cliff?”
“No,” Thrilok grinned. “Well... yes, but not like that. They say this side of the mountain has a forbidden plain. A flatland down there — see, just beyond Suicide Point. Locals say no one’s ever reached it. Too steep. Too wild. Untouched for centuries.”
“I read something on a Reddit thread,” Vrithik added, wide-eyed. “Some locals believe the plain was cursed by monks. A place where the dead fly.”
“Sounds like a party,” Rahul said. “We go tomorrow?”
And so, they did.
The morning mist was unusually thick. GPS failed. Maps blurred. But guided by Thrilok’s instinct and sheer curiosity, they trekked into a dense patch of forest behind the resort. Hours passed. Birds fell silent. Trees leaned in closer.
Then, under a massive banyan tree, they saw it — a ring of moss-covered stones. Strange patterns carved into them, eroded by time. Thrilok knelt, brushing aside vines. The stones trembled under his touch.
A soft rumble beneath.
“Guys… there’s something under here,” he whispered.
A narrow path revealed itself — barely wide enough for one person, leading downward into darkness.
They exchanged glances.
“Only one way to find out,” Rahul said, stepping in.
The descent was steep, spiraling. Earth turned cold. The silence was unlike anything they’d known — not peaceful, but watching.
Finally, they emerged.
Before them stretched a vast, golden-hued plain — hauntingly beautiful, flat, and silent. The air shimmered like heat waves, though it was icy cold.
No bird. No wind. Just… breathless stillness.
And then they heard it.
A distant humming. Like chanting in reverse.
“What’s that?” Suneeha asked.
Thrilok’s eyes were fixed on the sky. “Look…”
Shadows floated just above ground — human shapes, blurry, mist-like. They glided in slow circles, as if patrolling.
Rahul whispered, “Are those… people?”
“They’re not alive,” Vrithik said, backing away.
As if hearing them, the shadows froze. Turned.
Eyes lit with cold blue fire.
“They’ve seen us,” Thrilok said.
Suddenly, a sharp buzz filled the air. A crackle, like static through the bones. Lines of glowing energy flickered across the plain — invisible boundaries snapping back into existence after a century.
They turned and ran.
But with each invisible line they crossed, the trap closed tighter.
Vrithik was the first. He screamed, his body jerking mid-air as if pulled by hooks. Then — gone. Swallowed into the ground with a snap.
“NO!” Rahul shouted, racing back. A tendril of mist whipped around his leg, dragging him into the earth. His cry echoed, then silence.
“RUN!” Thrilok screamed, grabbing Suneeha.
But the forest path was gone.
Suneeha’s foot hit one of the glowing lines. Her body froze, eyes wide — then she crumbled, turning to ash mid-scream.
Thrilok fell to his knees. Tears streaming. "Please... please..."
And just like that — the plain exhaled.
All was still again.
The Krombigran had been awoken.
Freed from their eternal wait.
Days later, the region spiraled into chaos.
In Gangtok, a bridge collapsed with no cause. Witnesses swore they saw "mist people" crossing moments before.
A cargo truck, with no driver, slammed into the central police station at dawn.
Monks in the Pemayangtse Monastery began chanting ancient mantras, day and night, warning of the "Eyes That Return."
Villagers whispered of moving fog at midnight, glowing eyes just above their roofs, of whispers crawling into their ears during sleep.
A myth had become a movement.
Thrilok, the only survivor, walked into a monastery, barefoot, bruised, clutching a stone pendant with the same carvings from the forest.
The Head Lama took one look and gasped. “That is the seal of the Krombigran. Lost since Sidkeong’s death.”
“They were waiting,” Thrilok said, voice hollow. “Not to be found. But to be freed.”
“Then you have opened the gate,” the Lama said gravely. “And now… Sikkim will remember them.”
Outside, the sky grew darker than dusk. Not a cloud. But something else — something ancient, just above human level.
Watching.
And moving closer.
