I laid it out for them — everything. The hours in the library, the Brahmi script, and finally, the truth of the symbol carved into Rose’s corpse. As the words sank in, my colleagues stared at me, openly astonished.

Silence pressed hard between us.

Killian (finally, voice strained): “Please… tell me you’re joking.”

Before I could even answer, Lima stepped in, her voice steady, supporting.

Lima: “No, Killian. She’s not. I was there. I saw her with the book. And the moment she realized what it meant, she said we needed to call a meeting.”

Killian muttered a curse under his breath. His hand rose to pinch the bridge of his nose, his sigh jagged with frustration. The weight of this discovery sat heavy in the air.

Killian (gritting his teeth): “As if we didn’t already have enough to deal with. Now this. Another bloody complication.”

He lowered his hand, eyes burning with tired anger.

Killian: “Then why? Why didn’t we find evidence of other victims killed in the same way? We spent an entire day digging through that cursed archive! All we uncovered was Ms. Chatterjee… and that boy from Varanasi.”

Me (careful, reasoning it out): “There could be a simple explanation. For instance… maybe the victims were from another city. Who says the killer operates only in Calcutta? There are plenty of other places in West Bengal where he could… praise Kali.” 🌑

Lima’s expression softened with understanding.

Lima (nodding): “That makes sense, Amala. Serial cases often take much longer to connect because different locations aren’t linked together. But killers don’t sit still — and neither does this one. He could certainly travel.”

The thought settled over us like a chilling fog. For a moment, no one spoke. The weight of the idea — victims beyond our reach — pressed silently on all of us.

Killian’s fists balled tight, his jaw clenched. Then, in a low hiss, he cursed.

Killian (furious): “Son of a bitch… He’s playing with us! He knows exactly what he’s doing. He knows he has deeper knowledge of this culture, these rituals, than we do. And now? He’s pulling out ancient Indian languages to taunt us. When he tires of that, he’ll turn to even more obscure religious texts. And what can we do? We’re stuck chasing his bloody riddles.” 💥

I swallowed hard, but raised my voice, steady.

Me: “I’m not convinced these are just riddles. They’re not random. This isn’t whimsy. There’s a pattern. A purpose to everything he leaves behind.”

The room stilled again. Both of them stared at me — their eyes pinning me down with quiet intensity.

Lima shifted first, glancing at Killian.

Lima (thoughtful, studying me): “You sound… like you know this for certain.” 👁️

Killian leaned forward, suspicion sharpening his gaze.

Killian (blunt, pressing): “Are you sure you’ve told us everything? Is there… something else?”

My chest tightened.

Me (defensive): “What? No. I’m only guessing.”

Killian’s voice cut through, edged with frustration.

Killian: “And yet all your ‘guesses’ so far have been spot on.”

Lima leaned in slightly, her tone gentler, but no less heavy.

Lima: “And you always know where to look.”

Their eyes locked back on me — two pairs, different in tone, but both drilling into the same question.

I instinctively took a step back, suddenly feeling cornered, pressed against invisible walls.

Me (snapping, anger spilling out): “This is ridiculous! What’s next — you’ll say I’m the one going around killing people? That I sent myself here on this cursed mission?!” 😡

Lima immediately lifted her hands, palms facing me, her voice soft and coaxing.

Lima: “Hey, hey — slow down.”

Me (hard, biting): “Then think about how absurd your assumption sounds.”

Killian’s gaze didn’t waver, though his lip curled slightly.

Killian (pressing, deliberate): “Didn’t you tell us about… what did you call them? Visions. Dreams. To put it… mildly, it all sounds more than unusual.”

The words struck like a whip. My throat tightened.

Me (low, sharp): “Do you really want to talk about that here?”

Silence captured the room, heavy and dangerous, until Lima stepped between us more firmly.

Lima (quiet, soothing): “Please, both of you — calm down. We get it. Amala knows nothing more.”

Killian’s jaw still ticked with frustration, but he backed off a step, muttering low.

Killian: “We were only asking.”

I folded my arms tightly across my chest, the gesture both shield and sword. My pulse hammered, shame and fury twisting together.

Me (internally, stung, aching): They’re suspecting me now. As if the cursed bhoots weren’t enough — as if the chaos in my own mind wasn’t heavy enough! Suspicion is the last thing I need from them… 💔

My nails dug into the fabric of my sleeves.

And the visions — gods, the visions. Should I even tell them? Should I admit what I saw when I laid my hand on Rose’s cold body? That flash — the moment of his kidnapping, vivid, seared into my mind like I’d lived it myself…

I swallowed, my breath shivering.

I heard those faceless voices. I remember the words. They called him a “sinner.” They called him “heretic.” They accused him of heresy… accusations drenched in religion. Maybe there’s a clue there. Maybe this is the thread we’ve been missing. 👁️🩸

I looked between Killian and Lima, heart hammering.

Me (hesitant, but firm): “I know the timing isn’t exactly great but… I had another vision. Actually.”

Killian’s expression darkened.

Killian (weary, wary): “Amala…”

Me (sharp, insisting): “I’m telling the truth!”

Lima leaned in, her brows knitting, but her voice careful.

Lima: “What did you see?”

I swallowed, the words tasting like iron.

Me: “Remember… when I touched Rose’s corpse? At that moment, I saw something — like a memory. His memory. The moment he was kidnapped.”

Their expressions tightened, but I pressed on.

Me: “When they grabbed him, they called him a sinner. They accused him of heresy — of bringing nothing but corruption into the world.”

Killian’s fists clenched.

Killian (grim): “A sinner?”

Lima (leaning forward, urgent): “You said ‘they.’ There was more than one?”

Me (nodding fast): “Yes. I’m sure of it. I felt several hands pulling him away.” 🖤

The two of them exchanged another silent, sharp glance — one of those wordless looks that made my skin prickle.

Killian exhaled hard, looking around the embassy hall.

Killian: “Okay… we’ll think about this. But not here. Let’s move.”

We stepped out into the embassy gardens, a small patch of calm reserved for the staff — quiet, landscaped paths where the hot Calcutta air was softened by shade. Killian found a secluded corner, and the three of us settled there, away from wandering ears.

I straightened, voice steadying.

Me: “We need to divide the work. Get things moving, fast. Lima — ask the police about similar cases. Anything that even smells like it. Get Ratan to help you.”

Lima (nodding instantly): “All right.”

Me (lower): “If other bodies are out there — if they were dumped in other cities — we’re in deep trouble.”

Killian rubbed his jaw, staring at nothing.

Killian: “We also have to consider… maybe the symbol on Rose’s palm isn’t about numbers at all. It could be a code. A time. A warning. Anything.”

Lima (thoughtful frown): “It’s strange we didn’t see anything like that on the other victims.”

Me: “Or maybe we just didn’t look. Because at the time, we didn’t know what to look for.”

Killian’s eyes hardened.

Killian: “Then we’ll ask Vaish.”

Silence pressed in then. Only the afternoon breeze rustled the leaves overhead.

Killian finally broke it, his tone flat.

Killian: “They’re sending in a new leader.”

I stiffened.

Me: “Who?”

Killian: “Gabriel Grant. He wants to take charge of the case.”

Lima’s face flickered, unable to hide surprise.

Lima: “But… why?”

Killian’s mouth twisted with bitter irony.

Killian: “They can’t leave this task force without one of their own in control. Grant is meticulous. Scrupulous. A damned workaholic. He’ll turn Calcutta upside down and inside out if that’s what it takes.”

Unease carved its way through me. I pushed to my feet, pacing a little along the painted floor tiles beneath us. My eyes dropped — and only then did I notice: a map of India stretched across the ground in ornate design. Symbolic, ironic, intimidating.

Me (snapping suddenly, pacing): “But aren’t you one they appointed? Someone they trust? Why not give the job to you — you’re already here!”

Killian’s jaw ticked. His eyes slid away.

Killian (quiet, evasive): “I’ve had… disagreements. With my superiors. I’m usually placed on assignments of a different nature.”

Me (internally, frowning): What does that mean? He’ll never tell me, anyway.

He straightened, shaking off the weight of my question.

Killian: “Grant’s already on a plane from London. We’ll meet him soon.”

The words settled like iron chains around my chest. And then, with a sudden spark of clarity, the thought hit me like lightning.

Me (internally, pulse racing): Kiran. I could arrange for my brother to fly with Grant. He’d be safe. Protected among their security. And… it would give me the perfect opportunity to get close to the supervisor from the very start. Better to begin on the right foot… build trust before the storm hits.

Me (hesitant, softly): “Do you think he’d be willing to escort Kiran? I’d feel safer if my brother didn’t fly alone….” ✈️💭

Killian looked up, eyebrows flicking in surprise.

Killian: “Your brother’s coming to Calcutta? Hm.” He paused, then nodded with certainty. “Sure. I’ll arrange everything. After all, you were sent here on short notice. Let them meet you halfway and help you out.”

A wave of gratitude swept through me.

Me (earnest smile): “Thank you. By the way — Sana, the maid in the house where I stay, invited us to her wedding.”

Lima (blinking, incredulous): “But we don’t even know her.”

Me (with a shrug, gently teasing): “It’s Indian tradition. The more people, the better. A wedding is as much about the guests as the bride.” 🌸🥁✨

Killian (irritated sigh): “We don’t have time for this.”

Me (holding my ground, voice firm): “It’s just for one day. We need it. Let’s distract ourselves, take a breath. If this new leader of yours turns out to be such a pain, then we’d better be mentally prepared and well-rested.” 💥

Killian shrugged, exhaling through his nose.

Killian (relenting): “Fine, have it your way. That can also be… useful.”

Lima (soft smile, thoughtful): “I don’t mind. And maybe while we’re there, we can talk to the locals who attend. Who knows — we might stumble across something interesting.”

Me (nodding, pleased): “So it’s settled.”

I paced again, restless. My eyes fell on the colorful mosaic beneath our feet — the great map of India painted across the floor. I froze, a strange knot curling in my stomach.

Me (internally, sharp intake of breath): Wait… what’s that?

The thought wasn’t clear, just an instinct gnawing at me, pulling me down with its weight. My eyes fixed on one corner of the map. And then—like lightning—memory struck.

Flashback

Children squabbling, voices rising in the dusk.

Little Girl (sing song, insistent): “Dad said there were evil people in Mom’s village… so she ran away to a good place. Look—there are big mountains there! And here—see? The sea!” 🌊🏔️

It hit me like a chord struck in my chest.

Me (internally, heart tightening): Big mountains. The sea. A village whispered about as cursed — where people are killed. Kliphagrami.

My nails pressed against my palms.

Yes. That name. I’ll remember it. And when we go back to the police archives—I’ll search. I have to look there. 👁️📜

We shifted into lighter chatter after that, speaking casually about the coming wedding, about Grant’s imminent arrival, about the work ahead.

Three days passed. In the meantime, Lima worked tirelessly to coax the police into opening up—but each attempt was like beating against a wall. Even with Vaish by her side, barriers stood unyielding; polite refusals, clipped replies, doors shut tight.

It was clear: the locals didn’t appreciate us poking around in their business.

Me (internally, uneasy): Maybe this would be the right time to take advantage of Amrit Doobay’s promise to help. If even he can’t push through the silence… well, that will tell me something too.

Then came the first day of Sana’s wedding.

Guests were already filling the Chauhan household, the air warm with greetings, laughter, and the smell of spices. Today, the marriage rites themselves would begin. Before stepping into the bright whirl of festivities, I lingered a moment in my room… to prepare.

Me (thinking, smiling with gratitude): What would I do without Mrs. Chauhan, who insisted on gifting me these extravagant festive saris?

I selected a magnificent greyish-blue sari, its fabric shimmering with silver embroidery, paired with a full-sleeved blouse threaded intricately.

Me (thinking, awestruck): I’ve never seen anything more beautiful. It fits perfectly… it looks divine! Now—hair.

I chose an elegant style: parted neatly in the center, my locks flowing smooth, highlighted by a sparkling maangtika resting against my forehead. 💎✨

Me (internally, decisive): You can’t step into an Indian wedding without jewelry.

From the velvet-lined box, I selected the second set—a massive choker dripping with diamonds and pearls, regal against my neck. Sliding the earrings in, I turned before the mirror.

I caught my reflection, twirled once, and couldn’t help smiling.

Me (internally, thrilled): Now… I am ready to go and party! 💃🌸

The moment I stepped out, a sensory festival embraced me.

Noise. Music. Bursts of laughter. The rhythmic thrum of dhol and shehnai sliced through the chatter. Sweets piled in trays released waves of cardamom and rosewater. Platters of kebabs sizzled in corners.

Women in glowing saris of crimson, emerald, and gold whispered together, reminiscing about their girlhoods, daughters, and husbands. Children darted underfoot, chasing each other wildly — their hands sticky from stolen laddoos and jalebis. 🍬👧🏽👦🏼

Amid it all, Priyanka reigned like a queen hostess, maneuvering with brisk energy, her words like bells ringing over the crowd.

Priyanka (warm, rapid-fire): “Geeta, how’s your son? I heard he was promoted! Has he found a bride yet? Ah, Jayesh! You made it at last! Come in, come in — don’t just stand there!”

Then her eyes fell on me.

She paused, lips curving.

Priyanka (smiling with admiration): “Amala! What a beauty you are! Your guests are just over there. Smile, child. Don’t frown tonight.”

She touched my arm lightly, her tone lowering in playful mischief.

Priyanka: “And if someone asks you to dance — don’t refuse. There are many wonderful young men here today. Perhaps one will catch your eye…” 😉💫

With a light laugh, she whisked her pallu out of the way and vanished back into the throng, her voice already calling another guest by name.

As I wove through the glittering sea of guests, I spotted Killian and Lima tucked away in a corner, speaking lowly to one another. For a brief moment, they seemed so out of place among the silks and laughter — like storm clouds against a bright sky.

Me (smiling as I approached): “You came!”

They turned toward me, and I flashed them a grin.

Me: “Lima, you look stunning! Did you decide to wear a sari after all?”

Lima (flushing slightly, adjusting her pallu): “Well… I just thought — why not dress up for such an occasion?” ✨

Killian (already frowning): “Have you seen Vaish? We need to talk to him.”

Me (shaking my head): “No.”

Lima (scanning the colorful crowd, amused): “Judging by the chaos both outside and inside, I think all of Calcutta has come here today. Maybe he’ll arrive later?”

Killian (grim): “Let’s hope so… Wait. Is that him?”

I craned my neck — and caught just a flash of red fabric against a white shirt weaving through the throng.

Me (squinting): “Maybe.”

The three of us quickly pushed through the tide of guests, catching up to Ratan just as he reached the doorway. But he wasn’t alone.

An all-too-familiar voice reached me first.

Amrit (smooth, smiling): “Miss Khan. Hello again.”

My heart thumped as I froze mid-step.

Me (sharply): “Mr. Doobay? Ratan — why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

Ratan (raising his brows lazily): “I’m not here for work.”

Killian (gruff, curt): “And yet you’ll still have to work…”

The guide arched one brow — the gesture slow, deliberate, almost mocking.

Ratan (drawl): “Really?”

Beside me, Lima raised her hand as if to cut in gently.

Lima (careful, awkward glance toward Amrit): “Ratan, please… tell us—”

Amrit caught the moment instantly. His lips curved as though amused by the unspoken tension.

Amrit: “I’ll go and greet the hosts.” ✨

Gliding away, he dissolved into the crowd — leaving behind the odd pressure of his presence like a lingering perfume.

Lima wasted no time.

Lima (earnest): “Ratan — were there any symbols left on the previous victims? Like the one we found on Mr. Rose?”

Ratan (shrugging): “Maybe.”

Killian (snapping, sharp): “‘Maybe’?!”

Ratan (calmly): “I’m not a forensic expert.”

Killian: “But you said you’d read the report.”

Ratan (flat, uncompromising): “Alas. I’m not working today. So, if you’d excuse me…”

Me (firm, stepping forward): “Ratan. Answer. It’s your responsibility to help us.”

His gaze flicked across mine — cool, evasive, yet threaded with something unreadable.

Ratan (measured): “Then we can discuss it. During work hours.”

And with that, he followed after Amrit, vanishing between the shimmer of saris and bursts of laughter.

Killian’s jaw clenched visibly.

Killian (low growl): “What the hell just happened?”

Lima (grimacing, thoughtful): “Technically… he’s right. But I thought we’d managed a less… formal relationship.”

Me (uneasy, muttering): “He’s weird today.”

The tension fogged around us, heavy and unresolved. Finally, we drifted apart, each of us deciding to take a break — slipping back into the swirl of guests, conversations, and music.

But my thoughts lingered razor-sharp.

Me (internally, pulse quickening): I’ll find Amrit. I need to know how he ended up here. Is he a family friend of the Chauhans? If so… then this world is smaller — far smaller — than I ever imagined. 👁️

I found Amrit at the refreshments table, casually nibbling on a sweet, utterly at ease amidst the chaos of the wedding.

Me (approaching): “Mr. Doobay?”

He turned immediately, lips curling in that smooth smile.

Amrit: “Miss Khan.”

Me (curious, still catching my breath): “I didn’t expect to see you here. Do you know the Chauhan family?”

Amrit (nonchalant): “I was invited here as a Brahmin descendant. It’s a wedding tradition.”

Me (arching a brow): “Why not invite a real Brahmin?”

Amrit (the grin widening, voice silken): “Status. It’s considered prestigious when a member of the Doobay family attends your wedding.”

Me (internally, rolling my eyes): How modest… 🙄

Me (pressing, sly): “And what were you doing here with Mr. Vaish? You came together, didn’t you?”

Amrit (tone mild, but evasive): “We are… colleagues, one could say.”

He didn’t elaborate. Instead, his gaze slid across the thick crowd of guests, dancing and laughing to the beat of dhol. Then his eyes flicked back to me, gleaming with amusement. He extended his hand.

Amrit (grinning, playful but commanding): “Would you like to dance?”

Me (internally, narrowing my eyes): Ah. Changing the subject, are we?

Me (aloud, with a faint smile): “Yes. Why not? One is supposed to have the most fun at weddings.”

Amrit (voice low, dangerous charm): “That’s right.”

I placed my hand lightly in his. His fingers — elegant, refined — closed around mine with surprising strength as he led me to the dance floor.

Amrit (with a smirk): “Get ready for a dance you’ll never forget.”

Me (teasing): “Are you really that good of a dancer?”

Amrit (leaning in ever so slightly): “I do many things better than anyone else.”

His palm pressed against mine; his other hand guided my waist. Strong. Precise. Dominant.

Amrit (voice brushing my ear): “You must know too well what it’s like.”

Me (breath catching a little): “What exactly?”

Amrit (studying me sharply): “Being better than most. Standing out in any crowd.”

Me (defensive, shaking my head): “I’m no better than other people.”

Amrit (snapping quietly, the faintest edge): “Then you’re a fool.” ⚡

And with that, he pulled me into the rhythm.

We danced. He moved with absolute ease, spinning me, leading me, gently pressing his hand against my waist when needed. I scrambled to keep up, my sari nearly tangling in my feet, but he smiled indulgently at my efforts.

Amrit (with smug satisfaction): “I told you I was a good dancer.”

Me (laughing breathlessly): “And I’m very persistent.”

Amrit (the corner of his lips curving): “I’m well aware of that.”

Abruptly, he yanked me closer — my balance faltered, almost sending me toppling at his feet. He caught me seamlessly, twisting the stumble into a dramatic move, then lifted me lightly by the waist and spun me around.

Despite myself, I laughed, the room whirling, the music surging. For a fleeting moment, it felt exhilarating.

After a few minutes, he slowed us to a stop, still holding my hand.

Amrit (searching my face): “Did I cheer you up a little?”

Me (smiling despite myself): “Yes… this was wonderful.”

Amrit (serious now, his tone low and deliberate): “I put all of myself into anything I do.”

Me (meeting his gaze, steady): “That’s what I figured.”

We stepped aside from the crowd, breath slowing. He leaned in just slightly, his words soft but cutting.

Amrit: “If I have to achieve something, I’ll give only my best efforts. That’s why I tend to overcome all obstacles in my way… so easily.” His eyes gleamed. “And I heard from Vaish that you act in a similar fashion.”

His smile lanced through me, sharp and knowing.

Amrit (final, dismissive): “Interesting… Enjoy the wedding, Amala.”

And without waiting for my reply, he turned and walked away — moving effortlessly through the sea of guests. I noticed women glance at him, more than one pair of eyes following his tall figure.

Me (internally, pulse unsteady): What… was that?

Not long after, in the courtyard, I spotted Lima moving alone, her expression taut.

Me (calling out): “Lima!”

She turned, forcing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

Me (concerned): “Is everything okay?”

Lima (stiff, trying too hard): “Yeah… this is such a beautiful wedding.”

I frowned.

Me: “That doesn’t sound convincing.”

Lima (sighing, lowering her gaze): “Sorry. My head’s all over the place.”

Me: “Did something happen?”

She shrugged vaguely, voice quiet.

Lima: “I’m not too excited about the new team leader.”

A pang hit me.

Me: “Me neither. I still shudder thinking about Rose and… oh. I probably shouldn’t have said that.”

Lima (shaking her head, firm): “It’s not about Rose. I know Gabriel Grant personally. Killian won’t tell you the truth. He’s a difficult man. You have no idea how difficult.”

The bitterness in her words was sharp, almost painful. It immediately set my instincts on edge.

Me (carefully, hesitant): “Lima, let me ask you something… Did you two—did you and Gabriel—have an affair? I mean…”

She didn’t flinch, didn’t even look offended. Instead, a sad, tired little smile curved at her lips.

Lima (quiet, resolute): “I understand your question. And yes… I’ve made serious mistakes in my past. Gabriel was one of them.”

My chest tightened.

Me (softly): “Is he really that bad of a person?”

Lima (frowning, eyes narrowing as if recalling): “No, not really, I suppose. He’s equally fair and strict to everyone. But…” She paused, her voice dropping with bitterness. “He’s cruel to those he loves.” 💔

I reached over, gently brushing my hand against hers. I tried to smile in encouragement.

Me: “If there’s nothing between you anymore, then now… you’ll simply be colleagues. That means he has to be fair and impartial, right?”

Lima (nods, but uneasy): “Yes. But still… I don’t feel very good about it.”

Me (warm, steady): “Don’t worry. Together, we can stand up against any bully.” 💪

Her eyes softened.

Lima (low, touched): “Thank you.”

We stepped into the veranda. And at once, the atmosphere surged like a festival of light — the crowd, the swirl of laughter, the scents of marigolds and incense mingling in the air. It didn’t take me long to realize why.

The bride was here.

Me (smiling, weaving through): “Sana?”

She turned, glitter catching in her jewelry.

Sana (beaming, slightly breathless): “Oh, Miss!”

Me: “You look beautiful. How are you feeling?”

It felt like a miracle to catch her attention in the sea of well-wishers.

Sana (with a little laugh, fiddling with her bangles): “Good… not bad. I barely get a glance at my fiancé — he’s always dashing off somewhere. But the ceremony’s about to begin… There’ll be plenty of time for that later.”

Her voice held both nervousness and joy.

Me (warmly): “Well… as long as you’re happy, then I’m happy.”

Sana smiled, lifting one jeweled hand to touch the necklace at her collarbone.

Sana (softly, eyes shining with gratitude): “Miss, thank you for your generous gift. I’ll cherish it forever.” 💎

Me (genuine warmth): “You’re so welcome.”

Then, without warning, she leaned closer. Her hand brushed mine as she whispered swiftly, her voice cutting sharp through the laughter.

Sana (hushed, urgent): “You’re being watched. Please, be careful. Beware of people who talk about the soul… in Bengali.”

My breath stilled.

Me (startled whisper): “What?”

But she pulled away instantly, her face blossoming into a wide, polite smile at another guest, her voice rising in cheerful small-talk as if nothing at all had happened.

Me (internally, pulse racing): Bengali… the soul… What did she mean*?* 👁️🕯️

Nearby, two women bustled by, gossip in loud voices breaking my daze.

Guest 1: “The groom’s just a boy, full of energy! Lucky for her, at least she didn’t get stuck with some old man.”

Guest 2: “My sister was married to a rich one, and he died six months later. A sad fate. But this one — look at him rushing about! He’s enjoying his last moments of freedom!”

They both broke into merry laughter.

Curious, I followed their gaze.

Through the window, I spotted a figure dressed in the white finery of a groom. His movements were swift, almost furtive. He was hurrying away from the garden, ducking discreetly behind a tree.

Me (narrowing eyes, internally): Is someone… waiting for him out there?

My heartbeat quickened.

I have nothing better to do right now. And this constant running about—it feels suspicious. Maybe I should take a look. Better than standing here idly pretending to sip sherbet with strangers.

I slipped out of the veranda and wandered into the garden. The music from inside thudded in the background — drums lively, voices cheerful — but here the shadows seemed thicker, heavier.

On the way, I casually grabbed a plate of refreshments, balancing sweet pastries in my hand.

Me (internally, casual mask): I’ll just pretend I’m here to eat and watch the dancers… nothing suspicious about that. 🎶🍥

The closer I drifted toward the tree on the right, the louder the distant music became — but still, beneath it, faint murmurs bled through. I slowed instinctively.

Me (internally, chewing slowly): I could have just stayed on the veranda, Amala. Smiling, enjoying the day, sipping sherbet like a normal person. But no… you’re curious. Always peeking where you shouldn’t. Always meddling in other people’s lives. 🙄💭

I stopped beside a clump of bushes, my body angled like I wasn’t doing anything at all. I lifted the pastry, bit into it nonchalantly… while my ears strained, painfully sharp.

A hushed male voice—stammering.

Groom (low, anxious): “…didn’t plan for that at all. Only at your behest.”

Another voice answered, harsh, shadowed, commanding — the kind of tone that made my skin crawl.

Shadow (menacing): “Don’t you dare disobey me. Do what you’re told.”

The music blared around us, but the chill in that sound cut straight through.

Shadow (snarling): “Stop running to me. Enjoy it, boy. You’re celebrating your wedding.”

Groom (pleading, broken): “B-but… I don’t need all this.”

Shadow (sharper, ruthless): “But we do. Now go. Go away.”

Groom (hesitating, almost whispering): “Master…”

The Shadow’s voice curved into something lethal.

Shadow: “You dare to disobey me?” ⚡

I flinched — even from behind the bush, even though it wasn’t aimed at me.

Groom (panicked): “I don’t… forgive me.”

Something tightened in my chest. His voice… it struck a chord. Too familiar.

Shadow (cold, final): “Go cozy up to your wife. People are starting to look at you strangely.”

A sick knot curled in my stomach.

Me (internally, lips pressed tight): Even a wedding can’t just be a wedding, can it? Not these days.

I hurried away, heart pounding, uncertain if they’d noticed me lurking.

My thoughts drifted — almost by force — to Killian.

Me (internally, muttering to myself as I strode off): Where is he anyway? Probably pacing around somewhere, grumbling about food or guests or shoestring budgets. Complaining about something, no doubt. 🙃

But before I could push the unease aside, instinct yanked me to glance back over my shoulder. I caught a glimpse at last of the groom’s face emerging from behind the tree.

And then—

I froze.

My stomach dropped.

Me (internally, stunned to silence): M-Manu?!

The shock nearly made me stumble straight into another guest.

Me (staggering in thought): But how…? What a disturbing coincidence…

I blinked, shoving past the jostling, but by the time I tried to step closer, to demand an answer — Manu had already melted back into the swirl of guests. Gone.

As though he’d never been there at all.

I found Killian in the living room, standing before a row of paintings, his arms crossed, shoulders set like stone.

Me (softly): “I hope I’m not bothering you.”

He turned, eyes narrowing briefly, then softened.

Killian: “No. Of course not.”

Me (curious, stepping closer): “What are you doing?”

Killian (with the ghost of a sigh): “Taking a break from the crowd. There are too many people in here.”

I laughed lightly.

Me: “Yeah, well… it’s an Indian wedding. The more, the merrier.”

Without hesitation, I slipped my hand through his arm, tugging it gently.

Me (teasing, but earnest): “Don’t hide here sulking. Come on — let’s have some fun. You need to rest, especially when things are tough. Otherwise, you won’t have any strength left when the real fight comes.” ⚔️

He didn’t reply immediately, but he let me pull him along. And that, to me, meant more than words.

Killian (at last, giving in): “Fine. Let’s try. But you know, it’s strange — I hear many of the guests speaking English. Yet the moment I approach them, they switch tongues, pretending not to understand.”

Me (half-smiling): “That’s Calcutta for you.”

We left the room together.

It took some time for the three of us — Killian, Lima, and me — to reconnect and slip into the garden once more.

And oh, what a sight awaited us. The air buzzed with festivity: women in crimson and gold crowded around Sana, showering her with hugs and blessings; men were clasping hands, laughing heartily in congratulations. A hundred voices, bright and tangled, swirling in the humid night.

Lima (craning her neck, surprised): “Oh? Did we miss the ceremony?”

Me (grinning, reassuring): “It’s fine — the most fun happens before and after. Give me a minute, I’ll go congratulate her.”

I squeezed my way into the dense throng, pressing past bantering uncles and giggling girls. Nobody wanted to let me through at first, until—

Priyanka appeared, graceful as a queen reigning over her kingdom.

Priyanka (scolding in mock-seriousness): “I didn’t see you during the ceremony!”

Me (apologetic): “I’m sorry, I was a little late…”

She waved it off and ushered me to the bride.

Finally, I reached Sana. Her eyes lit at the sight of me, though her smile looked the slightest bit dazed, almost bewildered beneath the jewelry and makeup.

I didn’t care — I just flung my arms around her tightly, hugging her like she was my closest sister.

Me (warm, laughing): “Congratulations! Truly! But tell me… where’s the groom?” 💍✨

Sana leaned closer, a shy laugh escaping her lips, though her voice carried an edge of unease.

Sana: “Right after the wedding, someone called him away. He just left…” Her eyes flicked nervously toward the doors. “He’s been sneaking around the entire wedding.”

Me (angrily, to Sana): “What does he think he’s doing? You’re his bride, he should be here with you! Where does he always go?”

Sana (shrugging nervously, eyes darting): “I don’t know… maybe he’s just spending time with his friends.”

I turned my head, searching the crowd, scanning for that flash of white wedding attire. And then—I saw him.

The groom.

A spark jolted through me.

Me (voice hollow, disbelieving): “Sana… did you marry… Manu?”

Her lips parted in shock.

Sana: “You… know each other?”

The groom must have heard his name carried on my voice, because he turned. His eyes met mine across the swelling crowd. For a heartbeat, the noise dimmed. He waved at me.

Me (internally, dread surging): No. No, no… I’ve got a bad feeling about this. ⚡

I stayed a little longer with Sana, exchanging small words, but my nerves refused to rest. Something was off. A knife’s edge unease pulsed through me in waves.

Me (in my mind, coldly): Recent events have taught me one thing—when I feel this nervous, I’d better listen to myself.

And then it happened.

The cheer around us warped. Joyful singing broke into gasps. Laughter twisted into screaming. Women shrieked, their hands clutching their bangles to their mouths. I froze, my head snapping around. Sana’s wide eyes mirrored my own.

Me (urgent whisper): “What’s going on?”

Suddenly, Killian appeared, shouldering through the crowd, his face tense, jaw tight.

Killian (commanding, grabbing my arm): “Amala. Come here. Quickly.”

Me (struggling, panic rising): “What?!”

He pulled me sharply out of the swarm, my feet stumbling as my heart thundered. I looked back once, Sana still there, her face drained of color, looking toward the chaos.

Me (to Killian, desperate): “What the hell is going on?!”

Then I saw.

Lima was standing pale, petrified. Her face said it all before my own eyes could follow hers.

There — across the courtyard — the groom. Manu.

He staggered toward us, clutching at his shirt collar, his movements jerky, unsteady. I saw the white fabric darken — spreading red. Blood bubbled from his mouth, poured from his nose. His eyes lost focus.

Me (gasping, horrified): “Ah—!”

Manu (choking sounds, collapsing): “Khh—khh… khh…”

Me (shaking, voice breaking): “Manu!”

He crashed face-first into the ground, the cries of the crowd rising like thunder. People rushed to him, but a dreadful premonition curdled inside me: it’s too late.

Killian gripped me by the elbow as I swayed, almost fainting. But I shook him off, bracing myself.

Lima (stammering, horrified): “Manu… was he the groom?”

Me (numb, voice hollow): “Yes… that’s his wedding suit…”

Panic spread like wildfire. Sana pushed through the crowd, her eyes enormous, her face sheet-white as she stared at her new husband’s fallen body. A silence fell — broken when the first rescuer screamed.

Guest (wailing): “A knife! There’s a knife in his back! The groom’s been killed!”

The collective gasp tore the air apart. Guests recoiled, some cried, some shouted to lock the gates, some demanded everyone be searched. Others simply turned to flee.

Me (internally, mind spinning): A knife? At his own wedding? Who would strike an enemy down like this… at such a time? Manu was just a librarian in the Shaktism-Shaivism section… Or was he? Is this the killer’s work again? Was Manu a new victim caught in the same curse?

Killian’s face hardened, his voice taut.

Killian: “Someone stabbed him in the back. At a wedding, for gods’ sake. What madness is this?”

Me (internally, steeling myself): The weapon. If I can see the murder weapon, it might tell me something.

I pushed forward toward the body, ignoring murmurs and glares. The guests parted, uneasy as though fearing contamination.

I bent, eyes searching carefully.

Guest (snapping in horror): “What are you doing?! Get away, woman! Out of the way!”

I ignored him.

And then—my breath caught.

Nestled in Manu’s blood-soaked back was a ritual dagger. Its handle shone of gold, traced with elaborate engravings.

Me (internally, chilled to the bone): Too ornate. Too sacred. That’s not just a knife—it’s a *ritual blade.** Exactly like the ones I saw in my textbooks.* 🗡️🕯️

The murmurs swelled again.

Guest 1 (crying out): “A groom killed at his own wedding! Trouble is coming, everyone—trouble is coming!”

Guest 2 (grim, shouting): “The rites are already done—he was her husband! We must decide her fate now!”

Guest 1 (outraged): “She’s just a girl!”

Guest 2 (snarling, superstitious): “The groom’s death is a bad omen! The gods are angry—we must listen!”

My stomach twisted. Voices rose louder.

Killian (grimacing, confused): “Determine her fate? What the hell are they talking about?”

My heart ached.

Me (quiet, sick): “Oh… my gods. This will be so hard for her…”

Lima tilted toward me, demanding an answer.

Lima: “Why?!”

Me (heart pounding, voice cracking): “Because widows are considered untouchable here. Outcast. Stripped of normal life, comfort, respect. They’re doomed to isolation. They call them White Widows.”

And then the shout came.

Guest (bellowing): “She must be purged with fire! Sati!”

Guest 2 (echoing, madness spreading): “Yes! The death of a husband is the wife’s fault. The wife must pay. By fire!” 🔥

The wedding burst into chaos. Cries rang out, some in protest, some in agreement. I saw Priyanka clutch Aryan desperately, tears streaming down her face. Horror cracked her laughter into sobs.

Lima (voice trembling): “Sati? What is—”

My chest constricted — my voice broke.

Me: “The Sati ritual. The widow must throw herself alive onto her husband’s funeral pyre. Burned with his corpse. Alive.”

Killian swore, fury flashing.

Killian (shouting): “What brutality is this?! I won’t let them!”

Me (hollow, quiet): “It’s been outlawed, long ago. But in places like this… devotion outweighs laws. Faith outweighs reason… and the crowd, once stirred—”

Sana herself stood frozen, silent — but her stillness said more than words. The moment her husband fell, she knew. She knew her fate.

The Chauhans… they wouldn’t protest. They couldn’t. Local traditions were a force even they feared.

Me (internally, claws of panic tightening): Even though it’s barbaric—many here will support it. And if no one stops it, Sana will be burned alive. If I can do something… anything… maybe I can argue for her to become a White Widow instead. At least she will live. That would be better than death. Anything would be better… Yes. I must convince them! ⚡

I rushed forward and wrapped my arms tightly around Sana. She sagged against me, limp, her body trembling, her spirit already drained. Holding her felt like cradling a bird on the edge of breaking.

When I released her, I spun toward the crowd, my voice cracking with fury.

Me (shouting, furious): “How can you even say this?! She was only married for minutes — minutes! And you want her to pay with her life?!”

Guest 1 (snarling, fire in his eyes): “This is punishment — atonement for her sins! Husbands die because of their wives!” 🔥

Me (defiant, clinging to Sana’s hand): “Sana was an orphan — a maid — she is innocent!”

Guest 1: “Only the gods know that!”

Guest 2 (hesitant, but firm): “I say: let her live. Make her a widow and send her away!”

The crowd splintered instantly, shouts clashing against shouts. Rough voices overlapped, fingers pointed, the air swelling with disputes. The veil of festivity was gone, replaced by boiling superstition.

All the while, I kept Sana’s hand gripped tightly in mine, as if the strength of my palm alone could anchor her in this storm. She stared blankly, waiting like a lamb at slaughter.

The Chauhans exchanged nervous glances, the tension splitting their silence like knives. At last, Aryan lifted his chin, voice thunderous with authority.

Aryan (commanding, resonant): “My honored guests! I agree — the girl is young, innocent. Let us not resort to the barbarity of the past. Many here disagree with such savagery, and if we proceed, they could very well report us. Do you want the wrath of the police?!”

His words dropped into the crowd like heavy stones. Priyanka stood silently at his side, her silence firm, her eyes burning with unshed tears, her clasped hands trembling.

He was the master of the house. His voice outweighed mine.

Slowly, murmurs dulled. Shouts ebbed into mutters. Guests shifted uncomfortably, no one wanting to claim guilt or responsibility for a life.

Guest 3 (deflecting, shrugging): “Do as you want! I’ll have nothing to do with it. If you’re wrong — may the gods punish you, not me.”

And with that, Sana’s fate was sealed.

No fire, no Sati. She would live — but as a White Widow.

The Chauhans moved to escort her, flanked by a few guests who still lingered, whispering. Together, they led her toward the house. Her steps were slow, resigned. She didn’t resist. She didn’t belong to anyone anymore — not the Chauhans, not her husband, not even herself.

She was already a lost soul.

Killian watched, grim-faced, rage twisting his lips thin.

Killian (low, bitter): “This… is horrific. Inhumane.”

Suddenly, without warning, Sana stopped in her tracks. The crowd faltered too, confused by her sudden tension.

Then — she tore herself free, darting with desperate strength through the people.

The crowd parted instinctively. It was as if she was already untouchable — the cursed widow, cast out, unworthy of hands to stop her.

She rushed straight into my arms, clutching my hands with shaking fingers. Her eyes were wild, desperate, shards of terror and fury.

Sana (half-whisper, breaking, urgent): “They are getting rid of me. That was always the plan! For helping you — for warning you — it was arranged, Miss!”

Her voice cracked, nearly sobbing, but her final words burned like a brand.

Sana (sharp, final breath): “Beware of enemies that rule from the shadows!” 👁️🕯️

Before I could answer, several pairs of hands dragged her away roughly. She slipped from my grasp, her eyes still fixed on mine as they pulled her back into darkness.

I stood frozen, my chest aching. My hand still burned from her grip.

Me (internally, chilled): Enemies. Shadows. Ritual daggers. Manu murdered at his own wedding. Nothing here is chance. Nothing.

P.S. Oh, my trembling stargazers… did your blood not turn to ice? 💔 From the swirl of drums and marigolds to the crash of ritual daggers and shrieking voices, this wedding twisted from festival to funeral in a heartbeat. And now Sana — our sweet, shimmering bride — is in the jaws of an ancient, barbaric demand: Sati. 🔥👁️ Do you feel it? The crowd’s madness, faith sharper than any blade, deciding whether to strip a life from her before it’s even begun?

Tell me, darlings… what would you do in Amala’s place? Argue, fight, scheme, plead—risk your own standing to save Sana—or watch helplessly as fire claims her? Drop your burning thoughts below, for tonight I need your voices as much as Sana needs a miracle. 🕯️⚡

—Your Mistress of Midnight Masala 💋🖤✨