A witch ought never be frightened in the darkest forest because she should be sure in her soul that the most terrifying thing in the forest was her.

The whole day slipped past in the blink of an eye. I didn’t even realize how fast time had flown when Mom said, “Aaj raat hume maha-pūjan karna hai. Yakshinī, Shmashān Devatā aur Piśācha ko bulana hoga.”

Outside, the village streets were empty, swallowed in darkness. No one dared to roam. A small chuckle rose to my lips, "maine abhi tak apna badle ka khel shuru bhi nahi kiya… aur yeh log pehle hi kaamp rahe hain." Their fear was sweeter than anything I had ever tasted.

Me and Mom stepped into the blackthorn forest, a lantern trembling in my hand. She carried herbs, potions, a sacred book, and bhabhūt for drawing the ritual signs. Her whispers wove through the air like threads of fire.

Dogs whimpered in the distance. Doors bolted shut. Whispers leaked through the cracks of mud walls. They already knew. My blood had betrayed me.

The air was sharp with fear. The earth itself shivered. From the blackthorn edge, crows exploded into the sky like shards of night.

That night, my mother prepared not for mourning, but for my coronation. She called upon the deities, chanting into bowls of fire and milk. She summoned the coven, the witches who had survived in shadows all these years, daughters of blackthorn who had bent but never broken.

Then she pulled me forward. My body still ached from the transformation, but my soul was starving. The air thickened, the flames bent inward, and from the smoke emerged a figure cloaked in black silk. Her presence was heavy as mountains, her eyes holding the secrets of a hundred generations.

“Bhairavī,” her voice was low, echoing like it had lived inside me forever.
“Main teri Gurumaa hoon. Aur aaj raat… tujhe taaj pehnaya jayega.”

The witches circled me, their chants crawling into my marrow. Shadows pressed against my skin, cold and soft like kisses of blessing. Even the blackthorn branches bent low, as though crowning me with their thorns.

But the forest didn’t stop there. It whispered louder, showing me shadows I wasn’t meant to see.

First, Rudra Singh’s wife, draped in silks, flawless face, but a heart rotted black. Not a victim. His accomplice. She laughed while women wept, chained her comfort to his cruelty. No prayer could cleanse her sins.

And then… Mayuri. My Mayuri. My only light.

Except, the shadows never lie.

I saw her fingers dipping beads into oil, whispering not mantras but poison. Her eyes soft when they looked at me, sharp when I turned away. I saw her with strangers, whispering in the dark.

The truth pierced me deeper than any thorn.

Mayuri wasn’t my friend. She was planted beside me like a parasite, wearing the mask of loyalty. She was waiting for my eighteenth birthday.

Waiting to kill me.

But she didn’t know.

She didn’t know that on my eighteenth birthday, the universe itself would kneel.

Sweet honey dripped from my smile as I bowed my head before the witches. But inside, I was no girl anymore. I was the Queen Bee.

And every traitor, every parasite, every man who thought a woman’s body could be broken and forgotten—would soon learn that honey hides the sting.

And Mayuri?
My sweeeet Mayuri?
She would be the first to bleed in the woods she thought belonged to her lies.