JYĀTUYAM had come with the monsoons returned, though across the long path ahead, nary a sign of rain or storm clouds passed over them. They did not notice the shift in seasons, for they had already lost track of the days and months since their underground excursion. Lucky enough, they were to find trails of water deep under the roots of some trees, even if extracting what little there was proved difficult. Yet what could be had did allay a bit of their thirst.

Continuing for many days across the sand dunes as the foliage thinned, just as Sthūrthaṇār had said, they came across some ruins. But they seemed unusual, for there was a stone dome and some warped pillars arced over it. On inspecting, they discovered just how smooth the surface was, though not to the same shine as the stone in the underground ruins. Walking around it, they soon came to a hole just about their height, and passed into the darkness. As soon as they entered, the stone glowed dimly and warmed the interior. The symbols of the Gods could be seen carved into what was now, surprisingly, a weathered surface of the dome. And on the pristine floor that reflected like a mirror was a large spiral with a flame at its center. The symbol of the Fiyukthi. And across that spiral could be seen a variety of crudely drawn animals spiraling into the center flame.

They did not know what to make of this, for they knew these ruins were related to the underground ones, but these carved symbols and drawings could not compare to what laid under the Earth. The Sun was to set soon and so they ate, drank, and slept the night there.

Tūmbṃār once again unable to sleep, woke during the night. He silently crept out of the glowing space, leaving behind its warmth for the cold of the night. Outside he shivered, but quickly ran around with light steps for a bit to warm himself. He then scaled the dome toward the top. There, he set a single flame and waxed it under the glow of the stars. Though they seemed unchanging, Tūmbṃār could notice the shift of the constellations. The star Ydhṛhaḥ, that Vādruhaḥ mentioned, was to the southwest of the sky. It would not be long before it was at the zenith and with it the center of the month of Yudhrayam. He wondered to himself where it was they would be by that time. How much they would see, the perils they would face, before he could see the sage and ask him all he wanted to ask (supposing he had the chance).

Gazing into the flames, he longed for solace and answers, but the fire would not give it to him as like all other days. His longing for the flames never seemed to abate, for even across their travels, sometimes he would keep a small flame held in his palms and look at it for hours upon hours to the worry of the hours. But he would laugh it off, telling them he did it for fun, and they, knowing him to have his quirks, would give it no further thought.

He laid down on the surface and looked once more at the stars, seeing their rotation as the hours passed. And like that, he slowly fell into a slumber under the gaze of Svyamhaḥ; blanketing Tūmbṃār in her light as Naktshuthaḥ spun around her sister.

The air became dry and hot, burning their skin, and the group languished under the might of the Sun with no trace of cloud cover for much of their time. The desert as it should be, desolate, having passed by the last of the green. The sifting sand of the dunes swaying gently on the surface, with no animal or person in sight—it seemed the desert was mocking them. If only Ārhmanhaḥ would show them some compassion and let them pass by freely; if only Samiztrahaḥ would reduce the intensity of his gaze; if only Vyāythaḥ would chill the air and bring a gentle breeze their way; if only the Dehaḥṃār would show them compassion: but it would not be so for they would not deny their souls the pains and pleasures of the world, for whether the Ṃārhaḥn knew it or not, that was why they had come.

They had still much water and food, but their pace slowed and they were now covering a fraction of what they normally would. But even that was hard for them to gauge, for the shifting sands covered up their footprints rather quickly and the sameness of the dunes indicated little how much they traversed.

Tūmbṃār took off his shirt and rolled up his fhorlia. Nakthaḥm had already stripped himself down to his pants, with the legs rolled up. Somehow Aiṛth was bearing the heat, while Iḷēhaḥ pulled up her sleeves and tied the bottom of her dress up. Feyūnhaḥ did the same with her raiment for both her pants and shirt, but the blackness of her clothes had already soaked in much heat. And Sanyhaḥmān and Vrihkhaḥ, drenched in sweat, prodded slowly behind the others.