Only a single line, written darker than the rest:
"Extinction is not a punishment. It is a consequence."
Takṣaka Raktavetālya.
The name sat in the center of the page, carved rather than written. There was a symbol above it—an old mark, a dot crowned with a curve—something Sanskrit, something incomplete if removed. As if the name without it would be wrong. As if the name without it would be unsafe.
Born of the same womb as Alokasen Raktavetālya.
Second son.
Not blessed. Not cursed.
Watching was enough.
I frowned.
That line stayed with me.
Watching was enough.
The book described him as tall even among his kind—shoulders broad, frame solid, built like something meant to endure rather than dazzle. Where Alokasen was described like a force of nature—violent, radiant, impossible to ignore—Takṣaka was written like a shadow that chose where to fall.
His hair was dark, always kept loose, never styled. His face—sharp, angular, severe—was not beautiful in the way poets loved, but in the way generals feared. Eyes narrow, observant, constantly measuring. A man who didn't raise his voice because he didn't need to.
Takṣaka does not hunt recklessly.
He waits.
He does not imagine danger. He anticipates it.
The book noted that he had no supernatural gift—no command over elements, no blood-bound miracle. And yet, among all the brothers, he was the one sent first into uncertain territories.
Because Takṣaka noticed things.
The smallest shift in posture.
The hesitation before a lie.
The difference between fear and obedience.
He does not read minds.
He reads outcomes.
I swallowed.
This wasn't the description of a monster.
This was the description of someone who survived monsters.
It said Takṣaka rarely acted on impulse. He preferred silence to confrontation, patience to dominance. But when he decided something, there was no hesitation—no remorse either.
Once Takṣaka chooses a path, he does not look back.
Even if the road burns.
I found myself gripping the edge of the table without realizing it.
The book mentioned that among the brothers, Takṣaka was the least expressive. He didn't rage like Alokasen. Didn't provoke like the others. He observed. Stored. Waited.
And when the time came—
He ended things cleanly.
Mercy is not his virtue.
Efficiency is.
The last line of his entry was written in smaller script, almost as an afterthought.
If Alokasen is the blade, Takṣaka is the hand that decides where it falls.
I closed my eyes.
Somewhere deep in the house, wood creaked.
I suddenly became aware of how quiet the library was.
And how exposed I felt—
standing there, breathing,
with their history open in my hands.
~As i turned the pages further another name came to site
Kieran Raktavetālya
The page that followed felt… still.
Not heavy.
Not ominous.
Just silent—like a room where someone had been sitting for hours without moving.
Kirin` Raktavetālya.
Third son.
Born of the same mother.
No symbols marked his name.
No warnings carved into the margins.
Almost as if the book itself assumed the reader would underestimate him.
Kirin` walks among humans the easiest.
That was the first line.
He stood exactly six feet—no towering excess, no exaggerated build. If not for the pale, near-translucent skin and the unmistakable red of his eyes, he could have passed unnoticed in a crowd. His body was lean, quietly strong, shaped by restraint rather than violence.
A form that did not demand space.
A presence that did not disturb air.
He resembles what the world expects a man to be.
The book described his movements as unhurried. Not cautious—unbothered. As if time bent slightly around him instead of pressing against his back. He spoke rarely. And when he did, it was never to dominate a conversation.
He chose words the way poets do.
Deliberately.
Sparingly.
Kiran` does not speak to be heard.
He speaks because silence has finished saying what it can.
I felt my breathing slow as I read.
This one was different.
Kirin` was not a watcher like Takṣaka.
Not a presence like Alokasen.
Not a strategist, not a ruler, not a confessor.
He was… elsewhere.
His mind drifts where others anchor.
The book noted that he could sit unmoving for hours, eyes unfocused, as if listening to something no one else could hear. He was described as gentle—not kind, not cruel—simply distant. As though the world had never quite convinced him it deserved urgency.
He feels deeply.
He reacts rarely.
There was a line that stood alone on the page, spaced wider than the rest.
Kirin' understands humans.
He simply does not belong among them.
Not because he despised them.
Because he did not need them.
The book made no mention of tactics, no lists of kills, no legacy of blood. Instead, it spoke of nights spent awake beneath open skies, of unread books left untouched because he already knew how they would end.
Among the brothers, Kieran is the closest to mercy.
A pause.
Then, beneath it—almost as an afterthought:
And therefore the most dangerous when he abandons it.
I closed my fingers tighter around the page.
Quiet poet.
.
Almost human.
And somehow, that restraint felt more terrifying than violence ever could.
-I stopped for a moment and turned the pages again
Some births do not bring life. They delay death.
He was born under a white sky.
Among Vetālas, birth belonged to darkness. Moonlight was not ritual — it was recovery. The body learned its strength again beneath it. The mother healed. The child remembered how to breathe.
He was born in daylight.
Not at dusk.
Not between hours.
The sun stood high enough to erase the moon completely — as if the sky itself had decided there would be no witness to what was born.
Among Vetālas, birth belonged to night. Moonlight was not ritual; it was restoration. The body learned how to exist again beneath it. The mother healed. The child completed itself.
That day, there was only sun.
And the sun gave nothing.
The child was pulled into a world that could not feed him. His body lay fragile, veins thin, breath shallow — alive, but unfinished. The elders waited, not in panic, but in hope, believing night would come in time.
It did not.
By the time the moon rose, the damage had already settled into flesh.
His mother weaken ,she was wounded by sun .
She weakened because neither she nor the child received moonlight.
Without it, her body failed to reclaim what birth had taken. Her strength did not return. Her blood slowed. Her bones softened. She lived — but only as something already leaving.
The child survived beside her, breathing, growing — but never fully recovering what daylight had stolen.
He was last Heir of Vetālas ,
The son of Alokasen Raktavetālya and sherly` a pure Vetāla