Deep within the forest, far from the light of day, a cave yawned like the gaping mouth of some ancient predator. Stalactites dripped silently into a black pool, the water still except for the faint shimmer of Mohana's statue at the heart of the cavern. Its crimson eyes, carved into stone, glowed faintly, as if breathing with life.
A group of Daayans huddled near the pool, their voices barely above a whisper.
"They say a child has been born," one murmured, fear threading through his tone. "A Rivanshi… the chosen. If she grows, she will undo everything we have worked for."
Another shivered, glancing at the statue. "Without Mohana, how can we face her? She is protected… hidden… and she will not be defenseless for long."
The water rippled, distorting the cave's shadows, and then Mohana's reflection appeared. Her eyes burned red, centuries of ambition and darkness alive within them.
"They have given birth to the light," she said, her voice smooth and cruel, resonating across the stone walls. "And it is my duty to ensure that it does not become my undoing. This Rivanshi… she will not stand in my way."
The Daayans exchanged uneasy glances. "But… without you… how can we strike her? How can we reach her?"
Mohana's reflection leaned closer over the waterfall that split the cavern, a cascade of silver and black tumbling over jagged rocks. Her lips curved into a sharp smile.
"I know who will help," she whispered, her voice echoing like wind over stone. "My twin… the Dukaayan Daayan."
The words hung in the air, heavy with promise and dread.
Silence followed, save for the distant drip of water, as the Daayans absorbed the name—a name that carried power, sorrow, and vengeance.
And in that cave, Mohana's red eyes glowed brighter, fixed on a future that had already begun to take shape.
A hush fell over the cave. The Daayans instinctively stepped back, eyes widening as the shadows shifted unnaturally.
And then she appeared.
The Sorrowful Witch—the Dukaayan Daayan—stepped into the dim torchlight, her presence both terrifying and mesmerizing. Her beauty mirrored Mohana's, yet it carried a different kind of darkness: a sorrow so deep it seemed to drip from her very pores.
She wailed—a sound both human and otherworldly, echoing off the stone walls and pooling in the cavern like a storm contained. Her cry was sorrow and rage entwined, a lament that spoke of centuries of pain and vengeance.
Her form was uncanny. Two heads crowned her shoulders, each framed by a single, long braid, black as midnight, whipping the air around her as she moved. Yet, despite her dual visage, she did not bear four hands. Her arms, graceful and deadly, were only two—but each movement carried the promise of havoc and power untold.
The Daayans parted instinctively, giving her space, their whispers dissolving into silence. None dared breathe.
Mohana's reflection in the waterfall flickered, her red eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "Yes… she has come. My twin… my sorrow… the Dukaayan Daayan."
The cave seemed to shiver, as if the very walls were afraid.
And in that instant, all who watched knew—the dawn of a new terror had begun.
The cave remained still, the air heavy with damp stone and fear.
Dola stepped forward, both her faces turning toward the waterfall where Mohana's reflection hovered. One face wept silently, tears slipping down like molten sorrow. The other watched with cold resentment.
"Mohana, dear," Dola said at last, her voice splitting into two tones that echoed unnervingly. "You have called me for help… yet you know this well."
Her braids swayed slowly, brushing against the cavern floor.
"You are the last witch on earth I would ever aid."
Mohana's reflection did not falter. A slow, knowing smirk curved her lips, her red eyes glowing brighter against the rushing water.
"I know," she replied calmly. "But this is not personal."
The Daayans leaned in, sensing the weight of her words.
"This is about the Daayan Vansh," Mohana continued. "The lightbearer has been born. Rivanshi walks the earth now." Her voice sharpened. "And you know as well as I do—she is the greatest threat our world has ever faced."
Dola's sorrowful head closed its eyes briefly. The other tilted, listening.
"If you do not help me," Mohana said softly, "then it will not be just my end."
Her reflection darkened.
"We will all perish."
For a long moment, there was only the sound of water crashing against stone.
Then Dola sighed.
"Anh… anh…"
The sound was unnatural—too deep, too resonant—rolling through the cave like a mourning bell. The Daayans shuddered as the echo circled the cavern again and again.
To be continued…