Mohana did not walk away.
She turned back.
In one sudden, violent motion, her braid shot forward, coiling around Divya's throat and lifting her off the ground. Divya gasped, feet dangling helplessly above the rocks, blood dripping down her arm into the foaming water below.
Mohana stepped closer, her red eyes glinting with cold satisfaction.
"Revenge," she said softly, almost fondly. "It always comes full circle."
Divya clawed weakly at the braid, her strength ebbing fast.
"You ruined my ascension," Mohana continued, voice dripping with malice. "You stole my Daavansh. You cut my braid. You turned me to stone."
Her grip tightened.
"So this," she whispered, "is payment."
Mohana opened her mouth.
The air around Divya shuddered as Mohana began to drain her life force. A chilling pull tore through Divya's chest, as if her very essence was being ripped away. Her vision blurred, the world dimming at the edges.
But then—
Mohana staggered.
Her breath hitched sharply.
"No…" she hissed.
A sickly green tinge crept along her veins, crawling up her neck, spreading unnaturally across her skin. She recoiled, releasing Divya, clutching her own chest in sudden fury.
"What did you do?" Mohana snarled.
Divya collapsed onto her knees, coughing violently, but a faint, knowing smile curved her lips through the pain.
"Patal Ketki," she whispered hoarsely.
Mohana's eyes widened in recognition.
"The Underworld Lotus," Divya continued weakly. "A poison grown in the depths of Patal… lethal only to witches who feed on stolen life."
Mohana's rage shook the air. "You—!"
"I drank it," Divya said, voice trembling but resolute. "Long ago. In case a daayan ever tried to take what is not hers."
Mohana screamed in fury, the sound echoing across the cliffs. Her braid lashed wildly, cracking stone.
"You dare poison my victory?" she roared.
In one savage motion, she flung Divya toward the sea.
Divya's body sailed through the air and hit the water with a dull splash. The waves swallowed her instantly, dragging her down into the cold, endless dark.
Mohana stood at the edge, chest heaving, red eyes blazing with hatred as the sea churned below.
"Die knowing this," she spat into the wind. "You lost everything."
The water closed over Divya's sinking form.
Above, the eclipse lingered.
Below, fate watched in silence.
Night softened into dawn at the edge of a forgotten town.
An orphanage stood there—old stone walls, a rusted iron gate, a single oil lamp burning faintly above the entrance. The world around it slept, unaware that fate was about to be laid at its doorstep.
From the mist stepped the Baldevi.
She moved without sound, her presence bending the air, her form neither fully flesh nor fully light. In her arms lay the child—unharmed, breathing softly, eyes closed in innocent sleep.
The Baldevi knelt.
For a long moment, she only looked at the child, her expression neither sorrowful nor joyous, but deeply knowing.
"You will forget," she said gently, her voice like a whisper carried by water. "Your name, your lineage, your light."
She brushed her fingers over the child's forehead, sealing memories that had not yet formed.
"You will grow among humans," the Baldevi continued. "You will laugh, stumble, struggle… and believe yourself ordinary."
The child stirred slightly, as if sensing the words.
"But destiny does not forget," the goddess said softly. "When the time is right, what was hidden will return to you."
She placed the child carefully at the threshold, adjusting the cloth around her small body.
"You are not abandoned," the Baldevi whispered. "You are protected."
The oil lamp flickered.
In its glow, the Baldevi rose, stepping back into the mist. With one last look at the sleeping child, she vanished—leaving behind only the quiet certainty that something ancient had been set in motion.
The orphanage door creaked open somewhere inside.
The child lay waiting.
Deep within the forest cave, the air grew unnaturally still.
The stone circle pulsed faintly as Mohana staggered inside, her steps uneven, her breath shallow. The poison still coursed through her—Patal Ketki burning through her veins like a living curse. Her black saree dulled, the red glow in her eyes flickering weakly.
She reached the center of the cavern.
The statue of Dola stood frozen there, twin faces locked in eternal sorrow, twin braids hardened into stone. Cracks spidered faintly across Mohana's own skin now, creeping up her arms, her fingers stiffening.
"No… not yet…" Mohana hissed.
The cave answered with a low rumble.
Stone answered stone.
Mohana's body began to petrify—slow, merciless. Her skin greyed, her movements stiffened, and the braid that had once lashed like a serpent fell heavy and still.
At the same moment, Dola's statue trembled.
Hair softened. Stone cracked. Flesh returned.
With a gasp that echoed through the cave, Dola collapsed forward, free once more, her twin heads breathing in unison. She steadied herself, eyes falling upon Mohana—now fully stone again.
For a long moment, only silence reigned.
Then the stone shimmered.
Mohana's reflection rose upon the cave wall, forming from shadow and damp stone—her eyes burning red even without a body.
Dola looked up, a slow smile touching both her mouths.
"You did it," she said softly. "You survived."
Mohana's reflection smiled back, cold and patient.
"Congratulate me later," she replied. "Not today."
Dola tilted her head. "When then?"
Mohana's eyes gleamed with ancient certainty.
"Twenty-six years from now," she said. "When my Daavansh comes of age… when the chains break… when he becomes my sacrifice."
Her reflection darkened, voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to coil around the cavern.
"That day… I will rise again."
She paused, letting the words sink in.
"That day," Mohana finished, "I become Ekaayan Daayan."
The cave fell silent once more.
Stone waited.
Time began its countdown.
To be continued…