The village whispered in low, frightened breaths. Mayūrī’s name hung in the alleys like a stain, some swore they’d seen her, others swore they hadn’t. All the gossip bent toward the same culprit: Bhairavī.

Rudrā Singh wore his practiced calm like armor, but inside Vindhyā something shifted, an old, accurate intuition that never lied. She couldn’t sleep that night; she kept staring out the window as if searching for a hidden sign.

“Rudra,” she said suddenly, her voice taut like a drawn bowstring. “Mujhe lagta hai… yeh Bhairavī ka kaam hai. Woh jungle ke saath juri hai or ab to uski shaktiyon ka use pata bhi chal gaya hoga. Uski nazar mein kuch aisa hai jo… dangerous hai.”

Rudrā gave her a faint smile,  the kind that dismissed more than it soothed, the same smile that had once buried inconvenient truths beneath its calm surface. He turned slightly toward the fire, its light catching the sharp line of his jaw, pretending not to notice the tremor in her tone.

“Tum overreact kar rahi ho, Vindhyā. Mayūrī bacchon si thi. Maybe she ran away.”

But Vindhyā’s eyes didn’t lie; her chest rose and fell with a cold, decisive breath. “Main milungi usse, or puchhungi ki usne meri beti ke saath kya kiya.”

Vindhyā’s mansion had always been a spectacle — marble floors gleaming like still water, and old portraits that seemed to follow every movement with ghostly curiosity. But tonight, the grandeur felt hollow. The chandeliers quivered with an uneasy glow, throwing long, trembling shadows across the walls. 

Vindhyā had summoned Bhairavī with a voice soaked in honeyed grief — the perfect act of a mourning mother. Yet beneath that velvet sorrow hid hands steady enough to pour poison without a single tremor.

Bhairavī arrived—calm, composed, exuding that unmistakable cold queen aura. She stepped in with the Blackthorn’s shadow clinging to her like a dark halo; people whispered she looked paler, and her eyes carried the weight of something ancient. Vindhyā embraced her in front of the servants, voice soft and coaxing.

“Beti, tu jaanti hai na… hum bahut pareshaan hain. Mayūrī meri pyaari eklauti beti hai. Please, bata mujhe sach.”

Bhairavī smiled.

That small smile that was never a smile. “Of course, I came for Mayūrī. Maine bhi socha she might have run away. Aapne koi news suna?”

Vindhyā served saffron milk in crystal glasses, a mother’s comfort on the surface. She sat opposite Bhairavī, eyes glinting. “Aaj kal log bohot ajeeb ho gaye hain. Koi kisi ki madad nhi karna chahta h. Dusro ko judge krenge but help nhi krte. Or jab apne ke saath ho tohi react karte h. Atleast rumors to mat phailao agar help nhi kiya jaa raha hai to...”

As they talked, Vindhyā poured herself another sip, and slid Bhairavī’s glass a hair further toward her. “Bas ek chhoti si baat,” she said, voice silky. “Main chahti hoon ki tum apana khayal rakho or mayuri ko dhundhne me meri help karo. Pehle batao—kya tumne Mayūrī ke saath kuch kiya?”

Bhairavī’s jaw tightened for a beat, but she let a hint of her affection for Mayūrī show. “Mayūrī hi meri ek dost hai jo mujhe samajhti thi. Bhala main uske saath kya kar sakti hoon?” Then her smile vanished, replaced by a sharp, icy smirk. “Aur phir aapko kyun lagta hai ki main kuchh karungi? Main aapki purani dushman hoon kya?”

Vindhyā’s breath hitched, but she masked it quickly, playing her card. “Aajkal zamana kharab ho gaya hai, beta. Sirf tum uske saath zyada hoti thi, isiliye maine bas pucha. Main maa hoon jo apne bachche ke gum hone ke kaaran sadme mein hai, aur sochne samajhne ki shakti ab nahi bachi.”

Her hand brushed Bhairavī’s fingers for a second, and in that instant, the world seemed to shrink. “Beta, tum ye drink pi lo… aur mere faltu sawalon ke liye sorry. Maine tumhe hurt kar diya.”

Bhairavī lifted the glass. The milk smelled of saffron and honey—warm, inviting. She sipped, calm as ever, hiding the storm beneath.

Suddenly, a fire ignited behind her ribs, raw and relentless, crawling through her chest like molten metal. Every heartbeat sent shards of ice stabbing through her lungs, as if her ribs were being ground between frost and fire. Her vision splintered into jagged fragments, the world twisting and tearing around her. The milk in her hand turned traitor, both ice and flame, scorching her throat as she swallowed. 

She dropped the glass, crystal exploded across the floor, tiny diamonds of glass and light reflecting her agony. 

Servants gasped, frozen. 

Vindhyā’s lips curled into a small, satisfied smile, calm as death itself, watching her writhe in the slow, exquisite grip of the venom.

“Arre, kya hua? Tum theek ho?” Vindhyā asked, voice syrupy. “Tum bohot zyada bimaar ho… tum doctor ke pass jldi jao, beta.”

Bhairavī’s fingers went numb. Her stomach rolled like a trapped snake. She tried to speak and the words came out small, tequila-hungry. Her lungs wanted to shrink.

The room spun like a sick wheel.

And then the forest spoke.

The poison did more than numb.

It peeled.

Scenes burst in her head, each one a fresh bruise, just like a flashback.

Am I dying this early? her mind screamed, fractured between rage and disbelief. No... I can’t. I won’t. I am Bhairavī — not some trembling girl to be written off in a footnote.

Her breath came out ragged. “Why… why does it feel like… the last fifteen minutes of life?” she whispered, voice cracking under invisible weight.

Vindhyā watched silently, calm, predatory. 

“Shhh,” she murmured, voice dripping false pity. “It’ll be over soon.”

But Bhairavī’s eyes snapped open, gold fire flickering in the dark. The sigil beneath her skin pulsed faintly, veins glowing like embers refusing to die.

She heard her grandmother’s words inside her, not as memory but as a presence.

“My voice drips honey and venom. I call you my heir, my blade. Don’t worry beta, I am always with you….”

Bhairavī tried to stand but the poison had laid a net in her limbs. Her hand groped, touching the floor, and the floor felt like living skin. Something beneath the mansion’s foundation hummed like a caged thing.

Then came a sense of being lifted, not by hands, but by the forest’s will itself.

The air around her thickened. The chandeliers rattled like bones. As she slid under, the Blackthorn’s breath brushed her face, gentle and terrible both.

Unseen fingers, roots or spirits, dragged her outward, through the garden, away from Vindhyā’s perfect house.