"What do you need my help for?" Dola finally asked, both heads turning toward the reflection.
Mohana's eyes gleamed.
"We must perform a switching ritual," she said. "You will take my place as the statue—for three hours. In that time, I will be freed."
The Daayans gasped.
"And what will you do with that freedom?" Dola asked quietly, though she already knew.
"I will kill Rivanshi."
Dola's braids stilled.
"Hm," she murmured thoughtfully. "And what if you betray me?"
Her gaze sharpened.
"What if I remain a statue forever while you walk free?"
Mohana's smirk faded into something colder—something precise.
"You are my twin," she said. "That is why this ritual is possible at all."
Her voice lowered.
"And you know the law—it is a blood deal. If I break it, I die."
Silence stretched.
The cave waited.
At last, Dola exhaled slowly. Both her faces nodded in grim unison.
"Fine," she said.
"Then we shall perform the ritual."
The waterfall roared louder, as if answering her words.
And somewhere far away, under the rising sun, the lightbearer slept—unaware that the night had begun to move again.
The cave grew colder, as if the walls themselves were exhaling dread. Shadows twisted unnaturally along the jagged stones, curling toward the flickering torchlight.
Dola stepped into a demonic circle etched deep into the stone floor. Symbols that had not been touched by time shimmered faintly, as though recognizing the power about to surge. She knelt, her two heads bowing in unison. Her long braids whipped around her like serpents, each strand humming with dark energy.
From her lips came the chant—deep, guttural, ancient:
"Om Kaalanemi Shaktipaat… Pretatma Jagrata… Rakshas Shakti, Jagat Vinash!"
(Translation: "Oh eternal darkness, descend your power… awaken the restless spirits… unleash the demons, bring ruin to the world!")
The cavern shivered with each syllable. The Daayans in attendance instinctively stepped back, their faces pale. The air itself seemed to vibrate, pressing against lungs, pulling at the heart.
As the chant grew louder, Dola's skin began to harden, cracking and turning a pale gray, veins of dark energy coursing across her body. She hissed, the sound echoing as if multiplied a hundredfold.
Simultaneously, the statue of Mohana—red eyes dimmed, centuries of stone beginning to crack—started to tremble. The once lifeless figure quivered as though awakening from a long slumber. Small fractures crept along the surface, lines glowing faintly with her dormant power.
Dola's chanting reached a crescendo, her voices overlapping unnaturally, mixing despair and wrath. With each word, her body stiffened further, until finally, she was almost entirely petrified, a living statue of anguish and power.
And then—across the cave—the impossible happened.
Mohana's stone form began to crack fully, glowing from within. Her red eyes reignited, blazing like twin rubies. Slowly, deliberately, she stepped down from the pedestal of stone. Her braid, alive with power, whipped the air around her, striking the walls with a sharp echo. Her centuries of imprisonment had ended.
She turned her gaze toward the petrified Dola, lips curling into a predatory smile.
"Time to begin," she whispered, the echo bouncing off the cavern like a dark hymn.
The air grew heavy, almost suffocating. The Daayans looked on, some in fear, some in awe, as centuries of darkness coiled back into the world, ready to strike at the light that had just emerged.
The cave fell silent for a heartbeat, as if the world itself were holding its breath.
Mohana stepped forward, and the transformation began—slow, deliberate, horrifying.
Her once-white saree darkened from within, thread by thread, until it became an inky black fabric that clung to her form like liquid shadow. It swirled around her feet, as if alive, whispering with each movement.
Her braid, once long, lengthened further, whipping through the air, curling and twisting like a serpent possessed. Each strand moved independently, snapping with a faint hiss as it struck the stone walls.
Her legs shifted, bones and muscles bending unnaturally, the reversal of her feet now complete. The sound of her steps echoed oddly, a soft, horrifying click that seemed impossible yet unmistakable.
Her eyes ignited—pupils burning a crimson red, glowing like coals from a long-forgotten fire.
Long, black nails sprouted at the ends of her fingers, curving sharply, catching the flickering torchlight as deadly instruments.
Mohana's lips parted, revealing a slow, cruel smile that did not touch her eyes. She was no longer the woman who had walked into the Raizada mansion under a human guise.
She was the daayan reborn, centuries of power and vengeance concentrated into one terrifying presence.
The Daayans around the cavern drew back instinctively, some clutching their arms, others whispering prayers under their breath. The petrified Dola remained frozen, her twin faces staring silently as Mohana's shadow swallowed the circle of light.
Her braid twitched, a warning, and her red eyes swept over the cave. The hunt had begun.