Bhadson lay stretched beneath the lowering sun, a hard-baked sweep of Rajasthan where the day bled itself into molten gold along the horizon. Dust rose in slow, wandering spirals, borne by a wind that seemed to hum an elegy for a peace already thinning. Mud-brick homes huddled close, their cracked skins murmuring of summers long forgotten.

At the village’s edge stood a peepal tree, ancient and gnarled, its leaves shivering as though weighed down by confidences too old to speak aloud.

Beneath that canopy waited an ominous silhouette.

The light caught her silhouette and sharpened it into something both graceful and cruel.

A black lehenga flowed around her, its silver embroidery flashing like the scales of a coiled serpent. An obsidian-studded kamarband clasped her waist, anchoring elegance to intent. Silver bangles spiraled her bare arms, chiming faintly as she moved with a deliberation that felt practiced across lifetimes.

Her face was a study in invitation and threat. Eyes burned like twin coals, alive with a fire that did not belong to this world. Her lips curved into a half-smile that could bless or damn. Long fingers traced patterns no one else could see, sketching runes into the air; with each motion, the ground beneath her answered, pulsing faintly, as if the earth itself recoiled from her touch.

“Yeh gaon meri rooh ka aaina hai,” she murmured, her voice soft as velvet and sharp as a blade, “aur main isse apni mutthi mein bandh loongi.”

[This village is the mirror of my soul, and I will bind it within my clenched fist.]

Around her, blackened stones formed a careful circle, each one etched with sigils that glimmered red, alive and watching.

From the shadow of a distant wall, a villager dared to witness what should not be seen. His hands shook as they closed around a talisman worn smooth by prayer, sweat beading along his brow while fear widened his eyes. He did not move. He scarcely breathed.

Above Bhadson, the sun slipped lower, and the village felt it then, an unnameable pressure settling into its bones.

Something had arrived and appeared out of thin air beneath the peepal tree, and the land knew her name.

SUDHA

MAYASANGHRAM AARAMBH....!!!

THE WAR OF ILLUSIONS BEGINS....

The royal palace of Bhadson stood cloaked in torchlight, its vast sandstone walls glowing like embers against the night. Flames flickered along the corridors, breathing life into carvings worn smooth by centuries of rule and regret. Crimson-turbaned guards lined the entrance beneath a towering archway, their spears catching the firelight as they stood unmoving, sentinels of a kingdom under siege.

Inside, the durbar hall unfolded in uneasy splendor. Faded silk tapestries sagged from the walls, heavy with dust and forgotten victories. Above, a grand chandelier swayed faintly, its crystals throwing broken shadows across marble floors cracked with age. Opulence lingered here, but it was an opulence tired of surviving.

King Paresh sat upon a throne carved from dark teakwood, his frame bowed slightly beneath the invisible weight of his crown. Once, his saffron kurta would have blazed with royal pride; now its cuffs were frayed, the color dulled by years of unrelenting duty. A white dhoti pooled around his sandaled feet. His face bore the map of a lifetime spent choosing between lesser evils, lines etched deep by responsibility and restrained sorrow. On his right hand gleamed a single emerald ring, and his fingers tapped the armrest in restless defiance.

“Maharaj, yeh Sudha chudail ka aatank ab hadd se guzar chuka hai,” a villager cried out, his voice splitting like parched earth underfoot.

(Your Majesty, this witch Sudha’s terror has now crossed all limits.)

The man stepped forward from the gathered crowd, his weathered face half-hidden beneath a coarse shawl. His hands were clasped together in desperate supplication. “Woh jadoo-tona karti hai… hamara khoon choosti hai!”

(She practices black magic… she sucks our blood!)

A low murmur rippled through the hall, fear thick enough to taste. King Paresh’s eyes narrowed, a spark of resistance flaring behind the fatigue. He leaned forward, torchlight glinting in his graying beard.

“Bas, ab aur nahin,” he said, his voice quiet but forged of iron. “Main khud is rakshasi ka saamna karoonga.”

(Enough, no more. I myself will confront this demoness.)

His fist closed tightly around the armrest, the emerald flashing like a captive star.

At the edge of the hall, Queen Sarita stood near a filigreed window, her silhouette etched against moonlit stone. Her maroon saree, heavy with gold zari, shimmered as she turned. A crimson bindi burned softly against her pale forehead. Fear and resolve wove together across her face, her lips pressed into restraint while her wide, glassy eyes betrayed her heart.

She moved toward him, anklets chiming softly, her shadow stretching long across the marble.

“Prannath, yeh koi sadharan shatru nahi,” she whispered, her voice trembling yet edged with steel. “Woh andhere ki devi hai. Aapki jaan ko khatra ho sakta hai.”

(My beloved, this is no ordinary enemy. She is the goddess of darkness. Your life could be in danger.)

They stood before each other, king and queen, their gazes locked in a silent struggle more brutal than any battlefield. Paresh’s jaw tightened as he reached for her shoulder. She pulled back, her fingers twisting the edge of her pallu as if holding herself together.

“Priye, ek raja ka farz uski praja hai,” he replied, his voice gentler now, but no less unyielding. “Agar main chup raha, toh yeh rajya toot jayega.”

(Beloved, a king’s duty is to his subjects. If I remain silent, this kingdom will break apart.)

A single tear slipped down Sarita’s cheek, catching the light like a fallen star. She turned away, and the soft echo of her anklets faded into stillness.

Torchlight rippled through the durbar hall, skimming over sandstone pillars and pulling long, unsteady shadows across the marble floor. From between those pillars emerged Minister Parasmani. His lean frame was wrapped in a charcoal kurta, its edges traced with fine silver embroidery that caught the light with quiet cunning. His face was sharp, almost blade-like, and carried the alert cleverness of a fox. His eyes flicked about as if weighing every breath in the room, while a faint, knowing smile lingered on his lips.

He stepped forward, his wooden staff striking the marble in a slow, deliberate rhythm. Each tap announced calculation rather than courtesy.

“Maharaj, ek upay hai,” Parasmani said at last. His voice flowed smoothly, like oil poured over stone, yet beneath it pulsed a note of urgency. “Kanta Maushi… ek tabaahi jadoogarni. Woh Sudha ka muqabla kar sakti hai.”

(Your Majesty, there is a way. Kanta Maushi… a destructive sorceress. She can confront Sudha.)

King Paresh remained seated upon his throne, but his posture shifted. He leaned forward, his brow creasing as the name settled into the air. His fingers tightened against the armrest, the emerald ring flashing briefly, as though stirred awake.

“Kanta Maushi?” Paresh repeated, suspicion and curiosity braided together in his tone. “Kahan milegi yeh aurat?”

(Kanta Maushi? Where will this woman be found?)

Parasmani’s smile deepened. He lifted his staff in a broad, theatrical arc, as if drawing the answer out of the unseen. “Woh jungle ke andhere mein rehti hai, Maharaj. Jahan roshni bhi jaane se darti hai. Main aapko wahan le chaloonga.”

(She lives in the darkness of the jungle, Your Majesty. Where even light fears to go. I will take you there.)

Silence followed, thick and watchful. Then Paresh’s eyes hardened, resolve burning through doubt. He straightened, the weariness momentarily stripped from his face.

“Theek hai, Paras,” he said firmly. “Tum aur kuch sipahi mere saath chaloge. Hum usse khud milenge.”

(Alright, Paras. You and a few soldiers will come with me. We will meet her ourselves.)

He gave a single, decisive nod, and with it the path of the kingdom bent toward the forest’s dark heart.

Outside, the palace loomed beneath the night sky, its turrets carved sharply against a sea of stars. Somewhere beyond the walls, a wolf’s howl cut through the darkness. The wind carried with it a distant chant, low and venomous, echoing the dark rites of Sudha.

The stage was set.

And Bhadson trembled on the brink of war.

The jungle rose like a living wall beneath a moonless sky. Twisted, ancient trees clawed upward, their knotted branches tangling with the darkness above. Mist clung low to the ground, curling around roots and rocks as if the forest itself were breathing. Through a narrow, half-forgotten path moved King Paresh, Parasmani, and six soldiers, their passage marked only by the soft clink of armor and the cautious crunch of leaves underfoot.

Paresh no longer wore the unguarded robes of the court. A leather breastplate covered his saffron kurta, and a sword rested heavy at his side. The soldiers followed close, iron mail brushing against iron mail, hands clenched tight around their spears. Unease sat plainly on their faces. At the front walked Parasmani, his wooden staff parting thorny undergrowth, his sharp eyes never resting, always probing the shadows.

The jungle seemed to lean inward as they advanced. Branches snapped beneath their boots. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth, rot, and something sharper, acrid, wrong. Dark magic lingered here like a wound that refused to close.

A sudden rustle froze the group in place.

From the darkness stepped Kanta Maushi.

She loomed like a force of nature, nearly seven feet tall, her presence swallowing the clearing. A tattered red saree hung from her massive frame, its frayed edges resembling old battle scars. Her hair fell wild and untamed over broad shoulders, streaked with gray like ash through fire. Muscular arms, marked by old wounds, gripped a gnarled staff crowned with a skull bleached by time and ritual.

Her eyes burned like live embers. A jagged scar split one cheek, and when she grinned, crooked yellowed teeth caught the faint light.

“Kisne mujhe tang karne ki himakat ki hai?” she thundered, her voice shaking leaves loose from the branches above.

(Who has dared to disturb me?)

Parasmani stepped forward without hesitation and dipped into a sly, practiced bow. “Maushi, yeh Raja Paresh hain. Sudha ke aatank ka ant karna hai.”

(Maushi, this is King Paresh. We must put an end to Sudha’s terror.)

Kanta’s gaze slid to Paresh, weighing him, measuring his resolve. She snorted, a deep, guttural sound, then slammed her staff into the ground. The earth shuddered beneath their feet.

“Sudha?” she growled. “Woh shaitaan ka saaya hai. Chalo, main uska sar kaat doongi.”

(Sudha? She is the shadow of the devil. Come, I will cut off her head.)

The King answered with a single nod. His face was carved from grim resolve.

They moved deeper, the forest tightening into a maze of warped trunks and choking vines. With every step, the air grew heavier, fouled now with the stench of blood and smoke. At last the trees parted, revealing a clearing that felt carved out by blasphemy.

Sudha’s lair stood there, a crumbling stone structure etched with glowing runes that pulsed like open veins. At its center burned a fire that defied nature, its flames leaping too high, too eagerly. Before it stood Sudha, lost in ritual. Her black lehenga whirled around her as she chanted, her voice threading power into the night. A goat lay at her feet, its throat slit clean, blood spilling into a carved basin. Her hands, stained crimson, wove symbols through the air, and the fire roared higher in answer.

At the entrance of the maw of the lair.

The Minister lifted a hand, stopping the group. He leaned close to The King and whispered, “Maharaj, sipahiyon ko bahar rukne do. Yeh jadoo aur Maya ka sangram hai—Kanta aur Sudha ke beech. Jaan ka bhi khatra ho sakta hai.”

(Your Majesty, let the soldiers wait outside. This is a battle of magic and illusion—between Kanta and Sudha. Even life may be at risk.)

Paresh hesitated, fingers tightening around his sword hilt. Then, slowly, he nodded. The soldiers spread out along the edge of the clearing, forming a tense perimeter, spearheads catching the fire’s unnatural glow.

Kanta strode forward alone, staff raised. Her towering form cut against the flickering flames like a war banner of flesh and bone.

Sudha’s chanting faltered. Her head snapped up. Her burning eyes locked onto Kanta’s, and a slow, predatory smile curved her lips.

The jungle fell silent.

Between the two women, the air crackled with unseen power, thick with hatred, destiny, and ancient magic. Even the forest seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the coming storm.

King Paresh stood at the threshold. His saffron kurta and leather breastplate were smeared with jungle grime, sweat and soil clinging to him like the weight of the path he had chosen. The hilt of his sword caught the firelight with a faint, steady gleam. His eyes were hard, disciplined, yet beneath that steel flickered a trace of unease. He raised a hand, and the murmurs of the soldiers stilled.

“Sipahiyo, yahin ruko,” he commanded, his voice deep and grounded, heavy with the authority of a ruler. “Andar ka sangram hum teenon sambhal lenge.”

(Soldiers, stay here. The battle inside will be handled by the three of us.)

The soldiers shifted, iron armor whispering against iron as wary glances passed between them. At their head stood General Atin. Lean and athletic, he held himself like a drawn bow, every muscle taut. A dark green kurta lay fitted beneath his polished breastplate, and a curved dagger rested ready at his hip. His sharp features tightened as he stepped forward, one hand firm around his spear.

“Maharaj, yeh surakshit nahi hai,” Atin said, unable to keep the edge from his voice. His eyes flicked toward the gaping mouth of the lair, where red light breathed in slow, ominous pulses. “Sudha ka jadoo khatarnaak hai. Hamein saath chalne dijiye.”

(Your Majesty, this is not safe. Sudha’s magic is deadly. Allow us to come with you.)

Paresh turned to him, and for a moment the hardness in his face softened. He placed a steady hand on Atin’s shoulder, the emerald ring on his finger catching the fire’s glow.

“Atin,” he said quietly, “tumhara farz yeh hai ki gaon surakshit rahe. Bahar raho, aur aankh khuli rakhna.”

(Atin, your duty is to keep the village safe. Stay outside, and keep your eyes open.)

Atin’s jaw clenched. His fingers tightened around his spear, knuckles whitening, but he did not argue further. He bowed stiffly, frustration and loyalty battling in his posture. Stepping back, he signaled the troops, who spread out swiftly, forming a defensive ring around the lair, steel points glinting in the crimson light.

The King crossed the threshold alongside his minister.

Inside, the stone floor dipped and twisted, slick with moss and stained by dark substances that no name could properly claim. Parasmani moved ahead of him, Kanta was already inside confronting Sudha.

Paresh followed Parasmani, his hand resting on his sword’s hilt. His gaze swept over the walls as the runes began to pulse faster, brighter, as though sensing the trespass. Sweat beaded on his brow.

“Yeh jagah shaitaan ka ghar hai,” he murmured, barely louder than breath, the distant hum of Sudha’s chanting threading through his words.

(This place is the devil’s home.)

Parasmani glanced back, "Maharaj, himmat rakho. Kanta Maushi ka jadoo Sudha se kisi tarah kam nahi.”

(Your Majesty, have courage. Kanta Maushi’s magic is in no way less than Sudha’s.)

Meanwhile inside the lair…

Kanta slammed her staff into the ground. The impact sent a visible ripple through the air, a pressure that made the runes shudder and for the first time, even Sudha’s lair seemed to recoil.

Dark energy thickened the air, setting it humming like a living thing. From the shadows behind Kanta Maushi emerged King Paresh and Parasmani, their forms starkly etched by the firelight that licked the stone walls. The flames flared and writhed, throwing their silhouettes long and distorted, as if the lair itself were announcing their arrival.

Sudha’s head snapped toward them. Her coal-black eyes locked first onto Kanta, and then a slow, poisonous smile spread across her face, unhurried and assured.

“Toh, Kanta Maushi...yahi bulate hai na kuch log tumhein? kamzoron ki agyaat maseeha?” Sudha purred, her voice heavy with mockery and malice, “aakhir tumne meri mehfil mein kadam rakh hi di.”

(So, Kanta Maushi....this is what few knowing villagers call you? The arcane saviour of the weak and helpless? You have finally stepped into my gathering, in my domain.)

Kanta answered with a grin that showed no hesitation, no fear. She lifted her staff, planting it firmly against the stone as if drawing a line that could not be crossed.

“Teri mehfil ab khatam, Sudha,” she shot back, each word sharp enough to cut flesh.

(Your gathering is over now, Sudha.)

The two women faced each other, power gathering between them like a coiled storm. Behind Kanta, Paresh and Parasmani stood tense and alert, while the fire roared higher, their shadows stretching across the walls like towering figures poised for war.

“Sudha,” Kanta growled, her voice a low thunder rolling through the chamber, “tera yeh jadoo ka khel ab khatam.”

(Sudha, this game of your magic is finished now.)

Sudha tilted her head slightly, silver bangles chiming softly as she took a step forward. Her smile sharpened, becoming cruel and intimate all at once. “Kanta,” she murmured, “tu meri barabari karegi?”

(Kanta, will you match me?)

Paresh’s gaze flickered between them, unease tightening his chest.

In that instant, a shooting pain tore through his back.

A broken gasp escaped the king’s lips. His eyes widened, shock and disbelief crashing over his face. Paresh turned as the blade sank deep and gasped...

“Parasmani… tu…?” he choked, the words barely forming.

(Parasmani… you… ?)

Betrayal struck. Wicked gleam danced in his gaze, The Minister Parasmani grinned, after he had stabbed the dagger at the back of The King.

A weasel, a coward, moreover the slimy greedy traitor was he, all along, The Minister Parasmani.

With a roar born of rage and agony, Paresh spun around. His hands shot out and clamped around Parasmani’s throat.

The emerald ring on his finger flared in the firelight as his grip tightened. Parasmani’s eyes bulged, panic flooding his face as his feet scraped helplessly against the stone. His hands tapped helplessly onto The Old King's iron grip, onto his weary yet strong arms, which was a Sakshi - an evidence, brutal enough, why he was the most powerful , just, pious and headstrong emperor of Bhadson for all these years.

Paresh loomed over him, fury consuming pain, his fingers closing like a tightening noose.

Sudha moved.

She was a blur of motion, swift and silent. Her black lehenga swirled as she raised her hand and blew a shimmering mist straight into Paresh’s face.

His grip faltered. His eyes clouded, focus slipping away.

“Ab so ja, Raja,” Sudha whispered, her voice soft and deadly, like a lullaby meant for the grave.

(Now sleep, King.)

Strength drained from his arms as his knees buckled, but still his grip never left Parasmani's throat, his grip coiled harder now. Sudha's eyes gaped in disbelief, The King was stronger than what even the witch had estimated.

Before he could recover, the giantess Kanta Maushi surged forward. Her massive arms, thick and powerful as coiled pythons, wrapped around Paresh’s neck. The scars on her skin twisted as her muscles locked. Her ember-bright eyes burned with grim resolve.

Paresh struggled, too much of betrayals both psychologically and physically came his way and attacked him like a bunch of wild dogs at him at once.

The King's hands clawing at her arms, but the poison in his veins and the crushing force around his throat stole his strength. His movements slowed. His breath came ragged. The valiant King was falling into a slumber haze. His grip on the bastard minister loosened.

Freed at last, Parasmani staggered back, coughing. His eyes fell on the fallen king’s sword. He drew it from its sheath struggling with his choked breath, stepped forward staggering in the after effects, and drove the blade straight into Paresh’s chest.

The world seemed to still.

Paresh exhaled one final, shuddering breath. His eyes never left his betrayer. The firelight dimmed in his eyes as his body slumped heavily onto the cold stone floor.

The King of Bhadson lay still, betrayed, defeated, and silent, while the flames crackled on, bearing witness to the fall of a crown.

The lair lay in dreadful stillness. Paresh’s lifeless body rested at its heart, blood spreading beneath him across the cold stone like a dark tide.

Parasmani staggered backward, wiping sweat from his brow, his chest heaving. Triumph and terror warred across his face, each breath tasting of what he had just done.

Kanta Maushi moved before he could speak again. From the folds of her saree she drew a dagger, its blade etched with dark, crawling runes. Without warning she struck, driving the point into Parasmani’s forehead, not deep enough to kill, but enough to split skin and draw blood.

Parasmani froze. His mouth fell open. His hands trembled as he touched the warm line running down his face.

“Maushi… yeh kya kiya?” he stammered. “Hum toh saath the!”

(Kanta Maushi… what have you done? We were together!)

Sudha stepped forward, her smile curling like smoke rising from a funeral pyre. Her eyes shone with cruel amusement.

“Parasmani,” she said softly, disdain dripping from every word, “tu sirf takht ke laalach mein phansa tha. Ab yeh takht mera hai. Agar jeena chahta hai, toh mera mantri ban.”

(Parasmani, you were merely caught in the greed for the throne. Now this throne is mine. If you want to live, become my minister.)

The color drained from Parasmani’s face. The cleverness that had guided him this far crumbled under her gaze.

Realization struck, karma hit back on him in an instant. He betrayed the pious one and got himself betrayed in return by the witch. He had no choice. His shoulders sagged in surrender. Slowly, helplessly, he nodded.

Kanta wrenched the dagger free, wiped it against her saree, and leaned close, her breath hot and harsh.

“Sipahiyon ko bula,” she hissed. “Aur bol—Sudha ne hum dono ko chakma de di, Raja ko maara, aur bhaag gayi.”

(Call the soldiers. And say—Sudha deceived both of us, killed the King, and fled.)

Outside, beneath a sky littered with stars, soldiers stood guard, their spearheads catching faint light. Parasmani stumbled out of the lair, his kurta smeared with blood, his face twisted into a convincing mask of horror.

“Sudha ne hum par hamla kiya!” he cried. “Raja… Maharaj mar diye gaye! Woh chudail bhaag gayi!”

(Sudha attacked us! The King… His Majesty has been killed! That witch has fled!)

A collective gasp rippled through the soldiers. Faces blanched. General Atin’s grip failed him and his spear slipped from his hand, striking the ground as grief widened his eyes.

Behind Parasmani, Kanta emerged silently, her towering form half-swallowed by darkness, her grin hidden. From deep within the lair, Sudha’s laughter drifted outward, thin and mocking. The jungle itself seemed to shudder in answer.

Dawn broke over Bhadson like ash settling after a fire. In the village square, mud-brick homes stood washed in gray light and grief. Upon a raised platform stood Sudha, her black lehenga rippling around her like a gathering storm. Silver bangles flashed as she lifted her arms. Her face was carved with cruel triumph, coal-dark eyes sweeping over the villagers cowering below. She had held the Queen hostage in one night getting the King killed with deceit.

At her side knelt Queen Sarita. Her maroon saree was torn at the shoulder, her wrists bound with coarse rope. Her bindi was smudged, tears tracing pale lines down her cheeks, yet defiance burned fiercely in her eyes.

“Yeh gaon ab mera hai!” Sudha proclaimed. “Mujhe apni rani maan lo, warna yeh rani tum sab ke saamne mar jayegi!”

(This village is mine now! Accept me as your queen, otherwise this queen will die before all of you!)

Fear rippled through the crowd. Hands clasped, lips moved in silent prayers. A child’s wail pierced the air. Sudha’s fingers twitched, eager, alive with the promise of a curse.

From the edge of the square, General Atin forced his way through the crowd, sweat darkening his green kurta, a dagger clenched in his hand. His eyes locked onto Sarita.

Sudha raised her blade, its edge gleaming in the newborn light.

“Alvida, Rani,” she hissed.

(Goodbye, Queen.)

General Atin moved.

He shoved Sarita aside, a blur of motion, and Sudha’s dagger struck him instead. Blood bloomed across his breastplate. He staggered, a faint smile trembling on his lips as his gaze found Sarita’s.

“Bhaago… Maharani,”

(Run… Maharani.)

He fell. Screams erupted.

Sarita stood frozen in fear and sadness, eyes welled up in tears for her husband King and their loyal general Atin martyred while protecting her.

But she had to keep herself safe in order to come back.

Freed, Sarita scrambled to her feet and ran, grief tearing at her as she vanished into the twisting lanes of the village.

On the outskirts of Bhadson stood a humble hut, its thatched roof sagging with age.

Inside, Suchitra waited, wrapped in a simple blue saree, worry etched deep into her face. Her three daughters clung to her—Sonia, twelve, trembling in fear, Dimpi, seven, twisting her braid in terror with a wooden doll pressed to her chest, little Elakkiya, four, clutching her mother’s pallu.

The door burst open. Queen Sarita stumbled inside, her saree stained with dirt and blood.

“Suchitra,” she choked, collapsing to her knees, “Atin… tumhare pati ne apni jaan nyochawar kar di.”

(Suchitra… your husband sacrificed his life.)

Suchitra’s cry tore through the hut. The girls broke into sobs, collapsing into their mother’s arms as sorrow claimed the room.

Elsewhere, the palace had become Sudha’s domain. Black silks draped its halls. Parasmani stood before her, still the Minister, a helpless and scared one like a mice now, his charcoal kurta immaculate once more, presenting his daughter.

“Yeh meri beti, Sunita,” he said, bowing low. “Tumhari seva karegi.”

(This is my daughter, Sunita. She will serve you.)

Sunita, twelve and slender, stood in a plain yellow salwar, eyes lowered, hands trembling.

Sudha nodded. Nearby loomed Kanta Maushi, her red saree stark against the darkness. At her side stood teenager Jwala, her niece, built with the same towering strength, her crimson lehenga stretched across powerful arms. Jwala’s eyes gleamed with devotion as her fingers traced dark sigils in the air, already a student of forbidden arts. Sudha considered Jwala, as her name is, kept after knowing through her mysterious powers that she is a reincarnation of a fire breathing Dragon, a mysterious trait that she possessed by birth, supernaturally gifted.

“Jwala, Kanta,” Sudha said, her voice smooth and deadly, “tum dono meri shakti ho.”

(Jwala, Kanta, you both are my power.)

They both smirked back with arrogance, with their arms crossed.

In a desolate jungle clearing, moonlight spilled through twisted branches.

Sarita, now cloaked in a tattered gray shawl, faced Parasmani. His staff lay discarded at his feet. He had been cornered already as her fury burned.

“Tumne Paresh ko dhoka diya,” she spat. “Atin ko maut ke haathon saunpa!”

(You betrayed Paresh. You handed Atin over to death!)

Her hand flashed to her waist. Dagger held out, the steel struck flesh, piercing Parasmani’s dark, betraying heart to smithereens as he collapsed, shock frozen on his face. Dead and slain by Sarita ruthlessly as she kept stabbing his lifeless body, screaming at him.

Hidden among the shadows stood Sunita. A scream rose in her throat, only to be smothered by Sudha’s hand. Sudha leaned close, whispering into the girl’s ear.

“Sunita, yeh Sarita teri asli dushman hai. Jab tu badi hogi, jab waqt aayega, main tujhe badla dilwaungi.”

(Sunita, this Sarita is your true enemy. When you grow up, when the time comes, I will make you take revenge.)

Tears streamed down Sunita’s face as the words sank deep, twisting grief into something darker.

The jungle closed in. Parasmani’s body crumpled into the earth. Sarita vanished into the night.

Sudha could've easily saved Parasmani and killed Sarita then, but the witch chose otherwise, she wanted to fan a fire seething within young Sunita, for a reason best known to herself. She had a bigger vision, a deadly and the evil one.

But for now, she wanted to soar to a newer heights as The Queen spreading her reign of terror all over Bhadson. And she craved for a strong intelligent army of troops to serve her. She chose Sunita, an ace in the hole, holding all the strong cards hidden for now, for herself.

The Witch knew the game well.

Sudha’s laughter echoed on, a promise that darker days were yet to come.

© Supernatural Fantasma