Prithviraj's Pov

I stood in the room, waiting. It was nearly 12:45 a.m., the kind of hour when the house should be quiet, but the kids were still wide awake. Adi was fidgeting, playing with his phone, but Naintara... she was somewhere else entirely. When she laughed, the whole of my world lit up - her and Adi filled the space between us like nothing else could.

Still, sometimes a cold fear lived at the edge of me: what if I lost them? What if they left?

I swept them up the way I always did. Adi wriggled out of my arms, whining for his mother; Naintara rested her head against my shoulder. I carried her toward the bedroom, but the moment I opened the door, my stomach dropped.

The room was dark. Only one light burned in the center, throwing long shadows that seemed to breathe.

Naintara slipped from my arms and walked toward the darkness-small, determined steps. She was stepping away from me again. No. Not again.

Her blue eyes met mine, wet and pleading like someone trying to hold on. For a second I thought she would cry out; something in her face broke me.

I moved to catch her, but a shadowed hand reached out and grabbed hers. They ran. I ran after them. The hallway twisted into a loop, like the house had rearranged itself. The path repeated, endless, swallowing the world.

Her voice came, small and fractured: "Dada... help... dada, please... take away the pain... dada, please."

My world shattered into that sound.

"I'm coming, bacha. I'm coming." I stumbled forward, desperate, but my feet hit some invisible pull. My legs betrayed me; I fell to the floor, pinned by something I couldn't see. Panic clawed my throat.

I looked up-only her eyes hovered for an instant, huge and terrified-and then she was gone, swallowed by the dark. Her last scream echoed: "DADAAA!" Then another voice, raw and urgent: "JAANA, JAANA, PLEASE-LEAVE HER, PLEASE, LEAVE JAANA!"

I screamed back, but my voice sounded small, lost in an empty room.

I woke with a gasp, sweat cold on my skin. For a breathless second, the nightmare and reality tangled. Ishita was there, half-asleep across the room, and then it hit me: it had all been a dream. But the ache in my chest wasn't fake. It felt like the dream had ripped something out of me and left me hollower than before.

I got out of bed and quietly moved toward the kitchen. Drank a glass of water, made a coffee for myself, then stepped outside the mansion. The calm night air washed over me like a balm, a rare peace in this house. It was almost 2 a.m. I had slept earlier because of the headache medicines, but now sleep had fled.

I found myself sitting on the beach nearby, the gentle waves whispering against the shore. The dream still lingered-it had felt no less real than reality itself. The way I had failed... the helplessness of not being able to save her... it pressed on me.

"Meri beti se kaam nahi thi woh."("She had nothing to do with it.")

Jaana-my daughter-was the heart of our entire family. And now that we knew she was alive... it felt like hope itself had returned, like life could begin again.

My thoughts broke at the sound of footsteps. I turned and saw my brothers, Adarsh and Shivaay, strolling toward me. They plopped down beside me.

The bench was too small for the three of us giants. Naturally, I was irritated.

I glared at them and said, "Tum dono ko yahi baithna hai? Kahi aur nahi baith sakte tum log? Yahan pe almost 20 benches rakhe hue hain, humein koi kami nahi hai, par nahi, tumhe toh mujhse hi chipak ke baithna hai. Nai? Dono mein se abhi koi utho."

("You two have to sit right here? Can't you sit anywhere else? There are almost twenty benches here, no shortage, but no-you have to stick right next to me. Either of you get up now.")

They looked at me like toddlers refusing to leave the couch.

Adarsh huffed, "Usse kaho na mujhe kyun bol rahe ho aap?"

("Why don't you tell her why you're speaking to me?")

Shivaay jumped in, sulking, "Mein kyun haq chhodun, tu jaa dusre bench pe."

("Why should I give up my spot? Go sit on another bench.")

Adarsh snapped back, "Main tujhse 12 minute bada twin hoon, toh meri chalengi."

("I'm twelve minutes older, so my word counts.")

Shivaay rolled his eyes. "Sirf 12 minute? Kuch zyada nahi hai. Tu uth... mein nahi uth raha."

("Only twelve minutes? Not a big deal. You get up... I'm not moving.")

The bickering went back and forth, like two stubborn kids refusing to yield. One was a lawyer by profession, disciplined and sharp; the other a gangster in his facade, yet somehow just as ridiculous in these moments.

Finally, Adarsh sighed dramatically. "Chal phir, fair karte hai-rock paper scissors khelte hain."

("Fine then, let's settle this-rock paper scissors.")

I stared at them in disbelief. Rock paper scissors? Seriously? A mafia gangster and a lawyer deciding territory on a bench with RPS? Surreal barely covers it. I couldn't decide whether to laugh or throw my coffee at them.

Even more surprising-they actually started playing. Rock-paper-scissors. I had to stop them. I stood up, straightened myself, and walked to the bench in front of them, sitting down like the elder I was supposed to be.

Both of them just smirked. Honestly, no one else in the house had this level of obsession with teasing me-except these two.

I glared at them, trying to keep my voice steady. "Itni raat ko ek saath yaha kya kar rahe ho, aap dono?"

("What are you two doing here together at this hour?")

Aadarsh leaned back casually. "Ye sawal hum bhi kar sakte hain."("We could ask you the same thing.")

Shivaay tilted his head, still playful. "Toh ek kaam karo... ek boldo, sach bolna." ("Then do one thing... tell the truth.")

Even at this hour, even after everything, they couldn't stop teasing me. I just sighed, realizing tonight wasn't going to be quiet.

I looked at them, frustration clear in my tone.

"Yaha mil gaye... agle janam mat milna."

("Found you here-don't meet me in the next life.")

Both of them just chuckled, their sarcastic laughter echoing in the quiet night.

Aadarsh leaned forward, smirk still on his lips.

"Kuch nahi... bas kal ki security check reh gaya tha, isliye itni der ho gayi. Waise, aap yaha... woh bhi coffee ke saath?"

He tilted his head, genuinely curious.

Before I could answer, Shivaay cut in, his voice calm but sharp.

"Bura sapna aaya hoga, nai?"

I looked at him, not amused. With the three of us, there were no secrets-of course he knew.

A hollow chuckle escaped me.

"Woh phir aake chali gayi... aur main iss baar bhi kuch nahi kar paaya. Bol rahi thi-'kuch nahi kar paaya, kuch nahi bacha saka mujhe.' Aur Aditya..."

My voice faltered for a moment. I ran a hand down my face, trying to hide the crack.

"...woh kab aaya, kab apne aapko room mein band kar liya, kab bhar gaya-nahi pata. Nahi pata kisko."

The silence that followed was heavy, almost suffocating. They didn't laugh now. Both just looked at me-the elder brother, the one they believed could never break-sitting there with shadows under his eyes and a heart too tired to hide the weight anymore.

Aadarsh exhaled deeply, his eyes distant.

"Pata nahi kaisi hogi... kya karti hogi... thik bhi hogi ya nahi... par unki yaad jaane se rahi dil se."

(I don't know how she must be now... what she's doing... if she's even fine or not... but her memories will never leave our hearts.)

Shivaay's voice was heavier, almost trembling.

"Kaash woh na aata kabhi... kaash hum kabhi woh party hi na karte... kaash us din uski baat maan lete... kaash hum us waqt mein wapas ja pate... kaash hum usse wapas la pate."

(I wish that day had never come... I wish we had never hosted that party... I wish we had listened to her that day... I wish we could go back in time... I wish we could bring her back.)

I spoke, firm but quiet.

"Jo ab nahi badla sakte, uske baare mein baat na karein toh behtar hai. Aur Mahadev jo bhi kar rahe hain... unhe pata hai. Unhe humein humari behen wapas deni hi hogi."

(It's better not to talk about what we can't change now. And whatever Mahadev is doing... He knows. He has to return our sister to us.)

The silence was suddenly broken by the sound of the main gate opening. All three of us looked up as a deep blue matte car entered. Out came two figures.

One was the family's infamous night owl-Aatharv Singh Ranawat, and with him was the celebrated rockstar-Aditya Singh Ranawat. Probably back from one of their endless night rides. They were complicated-full of contradictions-but still part of the same puzzle.

Aatharv walked closer, holding Aditya's wrist casually, while Aditya just leaned back into the bench, expression unreadable. He rarely opened up, except with his twin... the only one who could pull him out of the walls he'd built after she was gone.

They sat on the bench opposite us. Aatharv, as usual, was grinning ear to ear.

"Toh kya baat ho rahi hai aap old-i mean bhaiyon mein?" he teased.

(So, what's going on with you old-I mean, elder brothers?)

I pinched the bridge of my nose.

Oh God. Not another one now.

As I said, he continued-

"Toh Shivaay bhai mujhe batao ki watermelon ko watermelon hi kyun bolte hai, apple kyun nahi?"

(So Shivaay bhai, tell me why a watermelon is called watermelon and not apple?)

Shivaay frowned.

"Kyunnnn?"

(Why?)

Aatharv puffed up proudly.

"Arey bhai, common sense! Agar do cheezon ka ek hi naam hoga toh confusion hoga na."

(Come on bhai, common sense! If two things have the same name, won't that be confusing?)

He said it so dramatically, as if he had just revealed the greatest wisdom in the world. Typical Aatharv-always ready with a lame joke.

Shivaay looked at him like he was ready to eat him alive if given the chance.

Sensing danger, Aatharv quickly asked-

"Okay, sorry... waise kal kitne baje jaana hai puja ke liye?"

(Okay, sorry... anyway, what time do we have to leave for the puja tomorrow?)

I looked over at him and answered shortly-

"9 baje."(At 9 o'clock.)

He nodded quietly.

Meanwhile, Aditya stood up and walked inside the mansion. Probably to the gym.

The morning light slipped softly into the mansion, brushing against the walls and filling every corner with a calm that was almost unreal. I stood in the corridor, watching my family move around in quiet chaos-the kind that only a family like ours could manage before a big gathering.

It was rare to see everyone dressed in coordinated colors, yet somehow it felt effortless. The men-Shivaay, Aadarsh, Aditya, Eklavya, and Aadhiraj-were all in white shades. Simple, elegant, and commanding. Even in silence, they carried their presence; the way their kurtas shifted with each step, the small adjustments in their sleeves, the way their collars rested-it all spoke of a subtle pride, an unspoken bond. I caught myself adjusting my own kurta, though it didn't matter-I felt grounded by being a part of this rhythm.

Across the hall, the reds caught my attention-Aatharv, Abhimanyu, Raghav, Vihaan, Aarohi, Kavya, Ishita, Maira, and Riddhi. The energy they carried in those shades was striking, almost like fire contained in fabric. The reds weren't flamboyant, but vibrant, warm, commanding attention without demanding it. The contrast between their energy and the serene whites made the space feel alive, a careful balance I had always admired in this family.

The elders-Viraj dada sa and Diya dadi sa , baba sa and maa sa , Dev Chacha sa and Radhika chachi sa , Heer chachi sa and Rajveer chachu sa and Mahima bua sa-moved with a quiet assurance, dressed in shades of green. There was comfort in their presence, as though they carried the roots of the family itself. Watching them, I realized that while the younger generation sparked life and movement, it was these pillars who kept the foundation strong, steady, unshakable.

I couldn't help but notice Ishita laughing softly with Aarohi, her hand brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. Maira adjusted Aadarsh's collar with a playful nudge, and Riddhi whispered something into Shivaay's ear that made him smirk despite himself. These small interactions, unnoticed by anyone else, were moments of intimacy in the middle of the chaos, reminders of how close we all were.

For a moment, I just stood there, arms crossed loosely, taking it all in. The house smelled faintly of incense and freshly brewed coffee. Sunlight caught the folds of the white kurtas and red sarees, scattering soft patterns on the marble floor. The hum of quiet conversations, laughter, footsteps, and the occasional clink of utensils created a rhythm that somehow felt like home.

And yet, beneath all of this, a subtle tension lingered. We all knew why today mattered-not just the puja, not just the gathering-but the undercurrent of anticipation, of purpose. We were here to honor traditions, yes, but also to prepare for what was coming. The search, the family reunion, the truth we had been chasing for so long. Every subtle glance, every whispered word, every careful gesture carried weight beyond the morning itself.

I moved past the hall, catching sight of Aditya leaning casually against the doorway, his expression unreadable. Even in white, he exuded that calm defiance that made him... Aditya. Aatharv, ever the opposite, bounded past, teasing Raghav about something trivial, his grin wide, full of mischief. I shook my head slightly, half amused, half exasperated.

As I settled on the bench by the window, I watched the preparations continue. Shivaay adjusted his cuffs, Aadarsh straightened his posture without noticing, Eklavya fidgeted with his kurta, probably bored but unwilling to admit it. The energy in the room, the contrasts of colors, the way everyone moved together yet separately-it was mesmerizing.

And yet, amidst all of this normalcy, I couldn't help but feel the weight of what lay ahead. There was the hope, the worry, the memories of what we had lost, and the responsibility that rested on all of us. But for now, in this early morning, surrounded by white, red, and green, the world felt... steady. Solid. For once, I allowed myself a quiet moment of contentment, knowing that soon enough, chaos and purpose would call us into motion again.

I took a deep breath. Today would be long. Today would matter. And somehow, as always, I knew we'd face it together.

It was 9 a.m. by now. The morning air carried a faint chill, but there was an energy in the city-the kind that makes even the streets feel alive. We all moved together in groups, each carefully arranged, yet everyone aware of each other's positions.

In the first group, it was me, Ishita, Eklavya, Aadhiraj, and Aarohi. We moved in sync, quiet but aware, our eyes scanning the lanes even as we walked. The second group had Aadarsh, Maira, Kavya, Aatharv, and Vihaan. The third group-Shivaay, Riddhi, Raghav, Abhimanyu. And in another car, Aditya sat with Maa-sa and Baba-sa, Heer Chachi, Rajveer Chachu, Dev Chachu, Radhika Chachi, and Mahima Bua-sa.

Security flanked us on all sides. Cars, bikes, even guards in civilian clothes, blending with the crowd near the temple and ghats. Weapons were discreetly in place, but every person knew their skills-each trained, each capable. The silence was purposeful, the awareness silent but heavy in the air.

The cars moved slowly through the streets, winding past narrow alleys and wider lanes. In less than half an hour, we reached the temple, though the cars had to stop farther away because of the crowd. Near the ghats, every guard was in place, dressed in purple civils, carefully watching every movement. The level of coordination was almost mechanical, yet unseen, like clockwork.

We moved inside the temple, one group after the other. The priest greeted us, calm but precise, and began preparing for the puja. One by one, we entered the main hall. The first thing I did was bow before Nandi Maharaj, then the Shiva Linga. The idol looked divine, almost alive, as if silently saying everything would be fine.

closed my eyes, my palms pressed together so tightly it felt like my bones would shatter. My throat was dry, my chest heavy, but still I whispered, my voice breaking with every word-

"Mahadev... aapse kabhi kuch nahi maanga. Aaj sirf ek cheez maangta hoon - meri behen, meri beti, meri jaana wapas dijiye. Bina uske hum adhure hain, bikhar gaye hain. Roz uski yaad se ladta hoon, par toot jaata hoon. Ab aur intezaar nahi hota. Aapki sharan mein hoon... bas ek baar apni kripa kar dijiye."

(Mahadev... I have never asked you for anything. Today I ask only for one thing - bring my sister, my daughter, my Jaana back. Without her we are incomplete, broken. Every day I fight her memories and lose. I can't wait any longer. I am in your refuge... just once, show your mercy.)

My voice cracked, my eyes still shut. For a moment, the chants, the fire, the crowd-all of it disappeared. It was only me, my broken heart, and Him.

Until the priest's voice finally called us back to the present... pulling me out of the prayer I could've repeated a thousand times more.

We moved out next, stepping onto Dashashwamedh Ghat, the morning sun reflecting on the Ganga's surface. The water shimmered, moving slowly but with purpose, like the currents themselves knew of our mission. The rituals began as we reached the ghat. By the time it was my turn, along with Vihaan and Aditya, we performed the rituals together, hands steady, hearts heavy, minds focused.

Even in this sacred, calm moment, I could feel the weight of everything we'd lost, everything we were hoping to regain. Every movement, every chant, every look exchanged between us carried more than respect-it carried our shared history, our unspoken worries, and our silent prayers for the one who had been gone too long.

The mantras rolled through the ghat, deep and resonant, as if the river itself was chanting along with the priest. The smoke of ghee and sandalwood filled the air, rising upwards, curling like whispers reaching the heavens.

We sat before the blazing fire, its warmth touching our faces, our hearts heavy with unspoken prayers. Each of us offered the samagri-rice, wood, flowers-into the fire as the priest guided. The flames leapt higher, fed by our devotion, glowing with an intensity that mirrored the longing inside me.

Then came the thali of vermilion.

The priest lifted it high, the red powder gleaming under the morning sun.

"Ye sindoor, kul ki shakti ka pratik hai. Isse ghar parivaar aur vansh ko ashish aur raksha milti hai," his voice carried.

The plate was first brought to me. I dipped my right hand into the vermilion, the powder clinging to my skin like a bond-sacred, unbreakable. With firm hands, I pressed it onto the idol of Devi beside the Shivling, the mark glowing bright against the stone. My chest ached. To me, this red wasn't just ritual-it was her. It was Jaana.

Next came Vihaan, steady and silent. His broad palm pressed the vermilion with the weight of his suppressed rage and devotion. He didn't speak, but his jaw clenched, his eyes shut longer than necessary. His silence screamed louder than words.

Aditya was called next. His hand hovered over the vermilion, fingers curling hesitantly before dipping. He let the grains linger, as though afraid they'd vanish. When he finally pressed the red against the idol, his movements were sharper, almost desperate-his lips quivering but refusing to break.

One by one, everyone followed.

Aadarsh, Shivaay, Atharva, Raghav, Abhimanyu, Aadhiraj, Eklavya... their strong hands left deep red marks. The women followed-Maa-sa, Bua-sa, Chachis, their eyes glistening as the powder stained their fingertips. Ishita, Maira, Riddhi, Kavya, Aarohi-all of them pressed the vermilion with reverence, their whispers drowned in the chants but their emotions burning just as fiercely.

At last, the elders. Daadu, Dadi, Baba-sa, Maa-sa... their hands shook with age but not with devotion. They pressed the vermilion with the certainty of generations, the blessing of lineage flowing into the prayer.

All of us-men, women, young, old-raised our vermilion-stained hands in unison, bowing low before Mahadev and Mata.

The sight... dozens of palms glowing red in the morning light... it wasn't just a ritual. It was a vow.

A vow that no matter what storms lay ahead, no matter what darkness tried to snatch her again-when she returned, when Jaana returned-she would not stand alone.

The sun had shifted high above us, its heat piercing even through the drifting smoke of the havan. Hours had passed-five, maybe more-but none of us moved from our places. The mantras went on, rising and falling with the priest's voice, steady and commanding, as if time itself had slowed to match his rhythm.

We offered everything we were asked to-ghee, grains, fruits, and flowers. The havan fire never dimmed. It roared on, golden and red, as if it too was waiting for something, hungry for answers we all sought but could not speak aloud.

By the time the final aahuti was offered, it was almost mid-afternoon. The bells of the temple chimed louder, the conch blew again, and the priest announced the closing of the ritual. Relief and heaviness both sat on my shoulders-relief that it was done, heaviness because the prayers still felt unfinished in my chest.

The priest, an old man with kind yet sharp eyes, brought out a thali. On it lay bundles of sacred threads-yellow, woven with care, dusted with sandalwood and turmeric.

"Yeh raksha-sutra hai," he declared.

(These are protective threads.)

One by one, he tied the yellow holy thread around each of our wrists-starting with Baba-sa, then Daadu and Dadi, then down to the younger ones, then us. As the thread tightened around my wrist, I felt a sense of grounding-as though the weight of the vow we had just taken had been sealed into my skin.

But then...

The priest reached for something else on the thali. Two threads-not yellow, but deep crimson red.

The moment he lifted them, the air shifted. Everyone noticed.

He walked straight to Aditya. His calm voice carried louder this time, as if deliberately meant for the entire family to hear.

"Beta, yeh tumhare liye hain-do laal dhage."

(Son, these two red threads are for you.)

Aditya looked confused, his brows furrowed. He extended his hand anyway, but before tying them, the priest paused.

"Ek tum apne liye baandho... aur ek, uske liye jo abhi yahan nahi hai. Jab woh laut kar aaye... tab tumhe khud apne haathon se uske kalai par baandhna hoga."

(One you tie for yourself... and the other, for the one who is not here today. When she returns, it must be you who ties it on her wrist with your own hands.)

The family shifted uneasily, whispers echoing around. My chest tightened instantly.

Aditya's voice broke the silence.

"Par... sirf main hi kyun? Yeh zimmedari mujhe hi kyun?"

(But... why only me? Why only I carry this responsibility?)

The priest didn't answer immediately. Instead, he lifted his hand toward the senior-most member of the temple grounds-the one we had trusted for decades.

"Iss sawal ka uttar, sirf Maha Pandit ji denge."

( "The Maha Pandit alone has the answer." )

At that, my heart stilled.

Maha Pandit Shivnarayan Shastri ji.

A man so revered, so trusted, that even the most powerful bowed before him without hesitation. For years, whenever our family was shaken, it was his guidance that anchored us. His words weren't mere predictions-they were truths that time itself always bent to fulfill.

The priest gestured for us to follow. Slowly, all of us-elders, siblings, even the youngest-rose and moved toward the inner sanctum of the temple where Shastri ji resided. The guards discreetly tightened their circle around us, blending into the crowd but always watchful.

The walk itself felt heavier than the five-hour ritual. My heartbeat echoed in my ears.

When we entered the chamber, Maha Pandit ji was already seated on a low wooden seat, his spine straight despite his years, his face glowing with the serenity of one untouched by worldly chaos. His eyes opened as we arrived-sharp, piercing, as though they saw not just us but everything we carried inside.

Aditya stepped forward hesitantly, the two red threads still in his hand. His voice was steady, but beneath it I could hear the storm he tried to hide.

"Maha Pandit ji... yeh sirf mujhe kyun diye gaye? Kyun kaha gaya ki main hi baandhoonga... jab woh wapas aaye?"

( "Maha Pandit ji... why were these given only to me? Why was it said that I alone must bind them... when he returns?")

The silence that followed was suffocating.

And then, Maha Pandit ji spoke-his tone calm, deep, but edged with the kind of certainty that left no room for doubt:

"Kyunki uske jeevan ka pehla aur aakhri raksha-sutra tumse judta hai, Aditya. Uski raksha ki dor tumhare haath se hi poori hogi. Tumhe hi yeh dharm nibhaana hoga."

( "Because the first and the final thread of her life's protection is tied to you, Aditya. The bond of his safety will be fulfilled only through your hands. It is you who must uphold this dharm.")

His words lingered in the chamber, pressing against every heart present.

The chamber was so silent that even our breaths seemed too loud. The only sound was the faint crackle of a single oil lamp burning near Maha Pandit ji. His gaze stayed fixed on Aditya, who still held those two red threads in his palm-restless, unsure, unwilling to ask again but desperate for an answer.

Finally, Shastri ji's voice cut through the stillness. Low, unhurried, but every word laced with a weight none of us could ignore.

"Suno sabhi. Waqt aa gaya hai. Woh laut rahi hai."

(Listen, all of you. The time has come. She is returning.)

My heart skipped. For a moment, I wasn't breathing.

He continued, eyes narrowing slightly as though he were seeing beyond the walls of this temple, beyond the present moment:

"Woh aayegi... sirf apni pehchaan ke liye nahi, balki tum sab ki raksha ke liye. Uske kadam iss parivaar ke aas-paas mandraate andhkaar ko door karenge."

(She will come... not only to reclaim her own identity, but to protect all of you. Her steps will drive away the darkness circling this family.)

The words wrapped around us, heavy, pressing, yet strangely comforting. But then his tone sharpened:

"Lekin yaad rakho-woh sirf ek shakti nahi, ek zakhm bhi lekar laut rahi hai. Uske andar aise ghaav hain jo aankhon se nahi dikhte. Tumhe samajhna hoga, dhairya rakhna hoga... aur uss dard ko mitana hoga."

(But remember-she is not returning as just a force of strength, but also as someone carrying wounds. Wounds deeper than your eyes can see. You must understand them, hold patience... and help heal that pain.)

Aditya clenched his jaw. Even from behind him, I could see his shoulders tense, like he was already preparing for a battle he couldn't name.

The Maha Pandit shifted his gaze across all of us-me, Aadarsh, Shivaay, Atharv, Vihaan, even Baba-sa and Maa-sa. His words fell like both warning and command:

"Uske aane se satya par se mukhota uth honge. Kuch raaz uthal-puthal machaayenge. Aandhiyaan uske saath chalengi. Tum sab ke liye yeh pariksha ka samay hoga."

(Her return will unveil truths. Secrets will rise and cause turmoil. Storms will walk alongside her. This will be a time of trial for all of you.)

He looked back at Aditya, then the threads in his hand.

"Aur isi liye yeh dhage tumhare haathon mein diye gaye hain, Aditya. Tumhe usse baandhna hoga... usse yaad dilana hoga ki chahe zakhm kitne bhi gehre ho, tum sab uske saath ho. Tum uske rakshak ho, uska sahara ho. Tum sabka bandhan us dhage se majboot hoga."

(And that is why these threads are entrusted to your hands, Aditya. You must be the one to tie them-remind her that no matter how deep her wounds run, she is not alone. You are her protector, her anchor. That single thread will strengthen all your bonds.)

A shiver ran down my spine. For a moment, none of us spoke. We were a family known for our strength, wealth, influence... yet right now, we felt like children being told of a storm we could neither see nor stop.

I folded my palms, bowing my head before the Maha Pandit, my voice low.

"Aap keh rahe hain woh humari raksha karegi... par kya hum uski raksha kar paayenge?"

(You say she will protect us... but will we be able to protect her?)

For the first time, a small, knowing smile tugged at Shastri ji's lips.

"Woh tum sab ki taakat hai, aur tum sab uski taakat. Par yaad rahe... uska raasta aasan nahi hoga. Uske saath chalne ke liye tumhe apne andar ke sabse bade darr ka saamna karna padega."

(She is your strength, and you are hers. But remember-her path will not be easy. To walk beside her, each of you must face the greatest fear within yourselves.)

And just like that, silence reclaimed the chamber. His words stayed in the air long after he closed his eyes again, as if the conversation was already over.

I glanced at Aditya. He hadn't moved. His eyes were fixed on the two threads in his hand, as though they weighed heavier than any weapon he had ever held.

For the first time in years, I felt it clearly-

The winds were shifting. She was coming back.

Maha Pandit Shivnarayan Shastri ji slowly opened his eyes again, as if another thought had surfaced within him. He turned slightly, his gaze shifting toward the priest who had been assisting throughout the rituals.

"Raghunath ji..." he called, his voice deep and commanding, yet steady.

The head priest-Pandit Raghunath Mishra-immediately stepped forward, bowing with folded hands.

"Ji, Maharaj?"

Shastri ji's hand lifted, pointing toward the corner near the sanctum where the vermilion thaal rested-an ornate silver plate filled with fresh red sindoor, adorned with marigold petals, sandal paste, and a small diya still flickering softly.

"Jo thaal tum log le kar aaye the... usse yahan le aao."

(Bring the vermilion thaal you all had brought.)

Pandit Raghunath ji nodded quickly, fetched the thaal, and placed it reverently before Shastri ji. For a moment, the air itself felt heavier-the bright red vermilion glowing like a sacred fire against the silver plate.

Maha Pandit ji did not touch it himself. Instead, he turned his gaze toward Aditya.

"Beta, isse apne paas rakho." (Son, keep this with you.)

The words, though spoken simply, carried a weight that none of us missed.

Aditya hesitated for a fraction of a second, but then stepped forward. He bowed slightly, both hands extended, and Pandit Raghunath carefully placed the thaal into his hold. The contrast was striking-our fierce, stone-faced Aditya standing still, holding a plate of vermilion as though it was more dangerous, more powerful, than any weapon he had ever carried.

Maha Pandit ji's voice deepened:

"Yeh sirf ek samagri nahi hai. Yeh tumhari pariksha hai. Isse sambhaal kar rakhna, jaise apni saansen sambhalte ho. Samay aane par yeh hi tumhari behen se tumhara naya bandhan banayega."

(This is not just ritual material. This is your test. Guard it as you guard your breath. When the time comes, this will form the new bond between you and your sister.)

The silence that followed was absolute. Even the faint sounds of temple bells outside seemed to vanish.

Aditya lowered his gaze, his fingers tightening minutely on the thaal. He didn't speak, didn't question-just gave a single nod, his jaw locked.

I couldn't stop myself from watching him. Aditya-the brother who rarely showed his emotions, who hid his storms behind cold eyes-looked for the first time as though he had been handed something that mattered more than his own life.

Maha Pandit ji closed his eyes again, almost like retreating into meditation. His final words lingered in the air, soft but undeniable:

"Is thaal mein kewal rang nahi, balki tum sabka vachan hai. Isse halka na samajhna. Isse apne saath rakhna... jaise apni rooh ke ek hissa banakar."

(This thaal does not hold only color, but the vow of your entire family. Do not take it lightly. Keep it with you... as though it were part of your soul.)

And with that, the matter was sealed.

I exhaled quietly, realizing I had been holding my breath. Around me, my brothers and cousins shifted slightly, but no one dared break the silence.

Aditya still stood there, unmoving, the vermilion thaal resting in his grip-an ordinary ritual object that suddenly felt like the key to everything we had prayed for.

We were moving out of the sanctum, the family ahead of us, the temple noise folding into the river's constant murmur. Aditya and I lagged a little behind-he with the vermilion thaal heavy in his hands. I don't know why, but my pulse had started to kick faster, that tight, empty feeling under the ribs like someone was standing just behind me.

Then, in a blink, a push-sharp, thoughtless-and the thaal slipped. Aditya's hand went out, but the plate tipped, the vermilion taking flight like red dust in a sudden wind. It landed everywhere: on our clothes, across our faces, bright and obscene against white kurta and pale skin.

A teen girl-no older than a raw impulse-had pushed through the crowd. She looked as stunned as we were, but the vermilion was clearly hers. For a second everything slowed. The red on my palm felt like a burn. That thaal was for her-for her-and yet now it was smeared across all of us.

Her voice rose, sharp and angry:

"Andhe ho? Dikhai nahi deta, batameez insaan?"

("Are you blind? Can't you see, rude person?")

Aditya, already tight, tried to be reasonable through his irritation:

"Miss, pehle toh aaram se baat kijiye. Aur haan-galti aapki thi. Itni bheed mein kaun call pe baat karta hai?"

("Miss, speak calmly first. And yes-this was your mistake. Who talks on the phone in such a crowd?")

She snapped back, outraged:"Meri kya galti thi? Aur ab mera dress kharab kar diya."

("What did I do wrong? And now you've ruined my dress.")

The vermilion was meant for protection, blessing. Hours of devotion, the family's prayers-spattered like cheap paint. That feeling-of ritual desecrated-hit me like a physical shove.

I stepped forward before my mouth had thought it through. My voice came out clipped, colder than I meant:

"Aap pehle zubaan sambhal ke boliye. Aur haan, galti aapki thi, humari nahi."

("Mind your language first. And yes-this was your mistake, not ours.")

She didn't back down. She kept staring at that ruined white anarkali like it was the world's last treasure. Her chest heaved; she looked like someone had stolen more than a dress.

Aditya's jaw tightened into a smirk that tried to be mocking and ended up sounding cruel:

"Ek dress ke liye itna rona? Drama queens. Agar itni hi padi ho apni dress ki, toh address do-puri dukaan bhejwa dunga."

("Crying this much over one dress? Drama queens. If you care so much about your dress, give the address-I'll have the whole shop sent to you.")

She bristled, suddenly fierce:"Ek number ke badtameez ho tum. Paise se sab kuch kharidne ki aadat hogi na? Lekin kuch cheezein... kuch cheezein dil ke bohot kareeb hoti hain. Jaise yeh dress. Isse kharida nahi jaa sakta. Agar samajh nahi aata, toh bekar ki tipni mat do."

("You're incredibly rude. Maybe you're used to buying everything with money. But some things are close to the heart, like this dress. You can't buy that. If you don't understand, don't make useless comments.")

I watched her wipe vermilion from the fabric. Then Pandit Raghunath stepped in softly, his voice steady:

"Beta, sindoor mat nikalo. Yeh abhi Shiv ji ko chadh ke aaya tha... kisi ki khoyi behen ke liye."

("Child, don't wipe it off. This vermilion was offered to Lord Shiva-for someone's lost sister.")

Her eyes rolled-disdain, a whisper between bitterness and boredom: "Italy mein hi reh leti toh better hota."

("I should've stayed in Italy.")

And then-my temper did something I had expected it never would. The old, sharp edge of power I've sharpened and kept under control all these years flicked out. I didn't catch the intent in my head, but my mouth moved on its own, words pushed forward like a blade:

"Ohh-so that's why. Foreign return. Came to the temple just for a photo op and then leave. People like you don't have sanskaar; your parents must've taught you nothing."

Her body still, like someone who had been struck. And before I could pull back the bluntness of it-before I could apologize, explain, anything-her hand whipped up and connected with my cheek. The slap landed loud, clean. Sounded like a drum roll cutting the morning.

The guards in civilian clothes started moving forward instinctively, sensing the rising tension. Their steps were firm, ready to intervene.

But Aditya's hand shot up sharply, holding a folded plan in front of him.

For a second everything locked. My cheek stung; the red vermilion on it mixed with the hot flush of embarrassment. But what surged after that sting wasn't shame. It was a hard, animal heat-rage, cold and bright, exploding from somewhere under my sternum.

My head filled with a thousand things all at once: the priest's words, the red thaal, the hours of puja, the memory of a little girl's laugh that had been taken from me fourteen years ago-the name Jaana like a splinter in the ribs. That slap had hit more than my face; it had scraped at the soft place I'd wrapped in iron all these years.

I wanted-so badly-to roar. To make her feel small, to put her in her place the way the world had tried to put us in ours. I could taste the command in my throat, the urge to push back with authority, to make the world respect the family's blood as if blood alone gave right.

But something steadied me-the priest's presence, the family's careful watch, the knowledge that a single wrong move could make a ritual into a scandal, make grief into headline fodder. The rage settled into a slow, dangerous pulse. I didn't yell. I didn't shove. I breathed in.

Inside, though, the fury was honest and ugly. I thought of all the times we had bowed our heads, all the sacrifices, the long years of searching. -were a sound that dug into me because they hit the one place that always raw: the ones we lost. I imagined all the faces of our house, the way Jaana had smiled at me, the way her small hand fit in mine, and the world narrowed to one truth: they would not disrespect her memory.

The girl's chest rose and fell fast. People around us were watching now-some wary, some curious. Aditya kept his face still; the thaal once in his hands had become heavier by the second. Fallen on floor.

Before I could even draw breath to anchor the sting on my cheek, a sharp voice split through the crowd:

"NAINTARA!"

The noise of the ghat seemed to fold back for that one name. Heads turned. She was storming forward, eyes blazing, braid swinging against her shoulder with each furious step.

Aadhira Raichand.

I froze for a half second. Recognition hit me like a jolt-her face older than the child I remembered, but the eyes... same sharp fire. Of all the people to walk in now, it had to be her.

And as though the world wanted the scene to tighten further, Aadhira exhaled in relief and spoke up:

"Prithvi bhai... Adi."

He named us both aloud, bridging something between strangers and family, as if by calling us so, he could settle the chaos. But it only made the crowd murmur louder.

Aadhira reached them-reached her-and in an instant, her eyes took in the red on Naintara's dress, the flush on my cheek, the vermilion scattered like war paint between us. Her jaw locked tight.

"Inayat!" she barked without looking back.

And like a shadow pulled from the air, Inayat appeared at her side, calm as water, steady as ever. Aadhira didn't even glance; her voice was a clipped command

"Take her. Right now. Away from here."

Sharp. Unflinching. Furious.

The same glare she had as a child when she believed someone was wronging what was hers. Except now, it carried years of steel.

She finally spoke, voice low and steady-deadly calm in contrast to her eyes:

"Are you okay?"

For a beat, I was caught off guard. Me? She was asking me that? After the slap that still burned across my skin?

But before I could respond, her words cut deeper, calm but sharp as a blade drawn slow:

"Because if she reacted like that... then you must've said something. She wouldn't lose control otherwise."

My jaw clenched. Heat flashed behind my eyes. Of course. Always someone else's fault. Always our mistake, never theirs.

I leaned forward slightly, voice dropping to the point, cold and sharp:

"Don't defend the indefensible, Aadhira. I don't care what excuse you give-your friend crossed a line. And if you know me at all, you know I don't tolerate disrespect to family."

Her eyes narrowed further, but I didn't flinch. The sting on my cheek was still there, but it was my pride, my blood, my family's name she had struck. And I wouldn't soften, not even for someone like Aadhira.

Between us, the air was taut, like a wire stretched thin-one wrong word, and it would snap.

Her glare didn't waver, though her voice stayed steady, calm like she was holding herself back from exploding.

"That dress..." she said slowly, her eyes cutting into me.

"It was her mother's last gift to her. Maybe you forgot that before you spoke."

The words struck harder than the slap ever could.

For a moment, silence pressed around us-the crowd hushed, Aditya stiffened, even Inayat paused mid-step as she guided Naintara away.

Her mother's last gift.

Not just fabric. Not just cloth. Something stitched with memory, with loss.

But still, my pride stood tall, unbending, even as her words echoed inside me like a curse I didn't want to admit.

Her words about the dress burned into me, but I refused to flinch. My jaw tightened, and I met Aadhira's eyes head-on.

"Aadhira," I said firmly, my voice cutting through the silence,

"I respect her emotions. Maybe that dress was important... maybe even priceless for her. But don't forget-what she ruined wasn't ordinary either. That vermillion..." I glanced down at the crimson stains across my hands, across Aditya's kurta, across her.

"...it was meant for her. For our Jaana. Every grain carried our prayers, our devotion, our years of waiting. And with one careless move, she scattered it like it was nothing."

Aadhira's glare hardened, but she didn't interrupt. I could feel Aditya watching me, torn but silent.

I took a step forward, voice low, heavy with the weight of my fury and grief.

"So yes, maybe that dress is her mother's last gift. But this vermillion was for our sister... our blood. And she disrespected that."

The words hung in the air like fire, daring anyone to challenge them.

We didn't linger any longer. Aditya and I walked back toward the mansion, the air still heavy with the morning chaos.

I kept my thoughts focused, every step echoing in the quiet corridors as we moved. The ghat behind us faded, but the tension from the vermillion incident stayed, like a shadow I couldn't shake.

The mansion doors closed behind us, and for a moment, everything felt still-just the two of us and the lingering storm that Naintara had left behind.

And that's a wrap for this chapter! 💫 I hope you enjoyed the tension, the chaos, and the fiery moments between everyone. Don't forget-there's so much more to come in the next chapter, and yes, the story continues right where we left off.

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See you in the next chapter!

( Bomb 💣 phod dungi agle chapter mein. ) Target complete karo hehehe...