MUMBAI, INDIA

NYSAA'S SANCTUM

2000 - SOMEWHERE IN THE PAST

The mansion stood grand and imposing beneath the night sky, its tall pillars rising like silent sentinels and its carved balconies glowing in pools of golden light. The marble façade reflected the lamps so softly it almost seemed the house breathed—slow, steady, alive with a presence older than anyone who now walked its halls. Inside, the floors shone like still water beneath crystal chandeliers, each prism scattering fragments of light that drifted lazily across ceilings painted with fading frescoes.

Maids moved through the corridors with practiced quiet, their soft slippers brushing against the polished stone. They spoke only in murmurs, their voices dissolving before they could travel too far, as though even sound knew it had to behave within these walls.

Bodyguards stood at every turn.

At the staircases.
By the doors.
Along the long corridors where shadows pooled between pillars.

Their suits were dark, their expressions unreadable, their eyes constantly scanning. They did not look like decoration, nor did they look like mere protection. They looked like warning signs carved into flesh and bone. Anyone stepping into this house would understand instantly—this was not a place where mistakes were forgiven.

It felt less like a residence and more like a guarded palace, wrapped in silence, power, and an old-world pride that clung stubbornly to every arch and railing. The kind of pride that had been inherited, not earned. The kind that did not fade with time.

Upstairs, far from the quiet patrol of guards and servants, a figure stood before an antique mirror framed in gold vines.

Nysaa adjusted the pleats of her saree slowly, her fingers moving with the ease of habit. The silk obeyed her touch, falling into perfect symmetry, the fabric whispering as it settled against her waist. The mirror before her seemed almost enchanted; it didn't merely reflect her image—it magnified her presence. The tilt of her chin, the calm authority in her eyes, the quiet grace in the way she stood—everything about her carried the unspoken language of royalty.

She lifted a stack of bangles and slid them onto her wrists. One. Then another. Then another. The soft clinking sound filled the room, delicate yet clear, like a tiny symphony meant only for her. The sound lingered even after her hands stilled, echoing faintly against the high ceiling.

For a moment she simply watched herself.

Not with vanity.

With memory.

Her gaze shifted toward the dressing table, and there it was—the Sindoor Daani.

It rested where she had placed it years ago, untouched except for days like this. The silver was slightly dulled with age, its engravings softened from time and the countless times her mother's fingers had traced them absentmindedly. The sight of it alone was enough to pull her back years in a single breath.

She picked it up gently.Her fingers dipped into the red powder, and when she lifted them, vermilion clung to her skin like a flame. Slowly, almost ceremonially, she raised her hand and filled the parting of her hair.

Her breath hitched.

Not because of the gesture.

Because of him.

A memory unfolded in her mind—the warmth of a voice, deep and unwavering, the weight of a promise spoken not lightly but with the kind of conviction that reshaped fate itself. A man who had once sworn, with this very red, that he would love her beyond pride, beyond anger, beyond time.

And he had never stopped.

A man like Nishkarsh Singhania did not make promises he couldn't keep. He did not play games with devotion. Love, for him, was not poetry or softness—it was oath, duty, fire. He had loved once in his life, only once, with a certainty that left no room for doubt.

And that love was hers.

Nysaa Nishkarsh Singhania.

Her thumb brushed the edge of the daani before she set it down again, her reflection watching her as if it, too, remembered everything.

Just then, a voice floated up from downstairs. "Mama! I'm really hungry! Where are you?" The call echoed faintly through the corridors, small yet insistent, carrying the unmistakable sweetness of a child who believed the world should answer her immediately.

Nysaa's lips curved before she even realized it. "Sona, I'm coming," she called back softly.

The nickname slipped out instinctively, warm as sunlight.

Sona.
Her precious one.
The name she had whispered to her daughter the first night she held her, when the world had shrunk to the size of that tiny sleeping face. The one who could dissolve her worst moods with a single laugh. The one person who could command her attention without effort or fear.

Downstairs, little Ragini sat cross-legged in the middle of the living room carpet, surrounded by dolls arranged in a careful semicircle. Her favorite one—Munni—was tucked tightly under her arm while she spoke to it in serious whispers, nodding as though the doll were giving important replies.

Her tiny brows furrowed with concentration. Her lips moved quickly. Every now and then she patted the doll's head reassuringly, as if comforting it.

Around her stood the guards.

They did not interrupt her game. They did not smile. They simply watched—alert, disciplined, immovable. Their presence formed an invisible wall around the child.

They had been appointed personally by her father. Because if anyone even dared to touch a strand of Ragini's hair, they would face the wrath of Nishkarsh Singhania.

And that wrath was not rumor. It was history.

The grand staircase curved downward like a ribbon of marble, and a moment later Nysaa appeared at its top. The lights caught the edge of her saree, setting its border aglow. For a second she stood there, looking down.

At her daughter.

The sight softened her instantly.

The steel in her spine melted into warmth. The queen became a mother. The ruler became a woman whose entire world was currently holding a doll meeting on the carpet.

The guards noticed her at once. Each of them lowered his head respectfully as she began descending, her steps light but steady. The bangles at her wrists chimed faintly with every movement, the sound echoing like tiny bells in a temple.

She barely registered the guards.

Her eyes were only on Ragini.

When she reached the last step, she crossed the floor quickly and scooped the little girl into her arms. Ragini squealed in delight, her laughter ringing out bright and unrestrained as her small arms wrapped around her mother's neck.

"Meri shona," Nysaa whispered, pressing her cheek against the child's soft hair. Ragini giggled, planting loud, enthusiastic kisses all over her mother's face, completely unconcerned with dignity or elegance or the silent audience of armed men.

Nysaa laughed quietly, holding her tighter, as if the world might try to steal her away if she loosened her grip even slightly.

The guards looked away instinctively, granting privacy without being told.

For a moment, nothing else existed.

Not the power.
Not the enemies.
Not the dangers lurking beyond the gates.
Not the empire built on fear and loyalty.

Just a mother.
Just a daughter.
Just laughter.

And in that fleeting, fragile second, the mansion—the fortress, the empire, the gilded cage of legacy and control—did not feel like any of those things at all.

In her arms, with Ragini's giggles warming her neck and tiny fingers tangled in her hair, it finally felt like something far rarer than power.

It felt like home.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

RATHORE HAVEN

The mansion stood like a quiet monarch presiding over its land, vast and unshaken, its marble façade glowing faintly under the pale spill of evening light as though the walls themselves remembered centuries of power and refused to let it fade. 

Tall pillars framed the entrance with the kind of authority that made visitors instinctively straighten their backs, and the enormous carved doors opened into a foyer so grand that even silence seemed to echo there, as if sound itself had to ask permission before entering.

Crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceiling like captured constellations, their light spilling across polished marble floors that reflected every movement with merciless clarity, while twin staircases curved upward in slow, regal arcs, meeting at the landing like folded arms of royalty.

 Long corridors stretched into shadow, lined with ancestral portraits whose painted eyes seemed almost aware, following each passerby with the quiet judgment of history, and heavy velvet drapes softened the towering windows, their rich folds carrying the faint scent of sandalwood, old wood polish, and the unmistakable trace of wealth that had never once known poverty.

Outside, trimmed hedges stood in disciplined lines, fountains whispered in steady rhythm, and guards patrolled with controlled precision, but inside, every wall, every railing, every inch of space spoke the same language—power, refined and restrained, yet so absolute it never needed to raise its voice.

Upstairs, in a room large enough to humble most houses, a man sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped as though holding together thoughts he didn't want spilling out. Anyone who had ever heard his name would have struggled to recognize him like this, because Shankar Singh Rathore was not a man who sat quietly worrying.

He was the kind of man who caused worry.

The ruler of the Rathore Syndicate. The name whispered in fear across cities. The man whose decisions ended wars before they began. Men twice his size had faltered under his stare, and men far more powerful had chosen silence over opposition, because no one questioned Shankar Singh Rathore and lived long enough to repeat the mistake.

And yet, in that moment, he was not a king, not a ruler, not a storm.

He was a husband watching his wife.

Mukti moved around the room with absent happiness, adjusting the pleats of her saree, fixing her bangles, turning slightly in front of the mirror just to see how the fabric fell, and every now and then a soft giggle escaped her lips, light and unguarded and so full of life that it did something dangerous to his chest.

That sound was the reason he breathed.

That laugh was the reason he fought.

That smile was the reason entire empires had fallen.

And that was exactly why fear crept into him when he least expected it, because somewhere out there were men ruthless enough to understand that the fastest way to destroy Shankar Singh Rathore was not to attack him, but to touch what he loved.

The thought alone tightened his jaw.

He could face bullets. He could face betrayal. He could face death without blinking.

But he could not face something happening to her.

His wife.

Mukti Shankar Singh Rathore.

He had survived bloodshed, betrayal, wounds, and wars that would have broken lesser men, but the idea of losing her was something his mind refused to even picture, because every dangerous man in the world had one fragile place where he could shatter, and for Shankar Singh Rathore, that place stood a few steps away adjusting her earrings.

"Muku... is it important for you to go today?" he asked quietly, his voice softer than anyone outside this room had ever heard it.

She turned toward him, her saree whispering around her ankles, her expression warm and bright. "Haanji, aapko bataya tha na, Nysaa aur maine plan banaya hai," she said gently, tilting her head just slightly, and then she gave him that look—the one with wide eyes and silent pleading that always undid him before she even finished speaking.

He exhaled slowly. "Don't do that, Muku." he rubbed his forehead lightly before adding, "I'm not stopping you, jaanu... it's just the situation isn't good right now. You know our world. I can't risk something happening to you... or the boys."

She stilled, and the excitement in her face dimmed just a little, not enough for anyone else to notice, but he saw it instantly because he had memorized every shift in her expression long ago.

"Thik hai... aap bol rahe hain toh nahi jayenge," she said softly, trying to sound normal, but the quiet disappointment underneath her words struck him harder than any weapon ever had.

He hated that sound.

Hated that his life meant danger.
Hated that loving him meant caution.
Hated that he couldn't give her the simple freedom most women never even had to think twice about.

Before he could stop himself, he stood and crossed the distance between them in two strides, pulling her into his arms and burying his face against her shoulder as he inhaled deeply, her scent settling something restless inside him the way nothing else ever could.

"You can go, Muku," he murmured against her hair, his voice low and resigned but gentle. "I'm not stopping you. Just be careful... and don't let the boys run around, okay?"

He leaned back just enough to look into her eyes, and when he saw relief bloom there, something inside him softened completely. A small smile appeared on his lips as he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to her forehead, the kind that carried more promise than words ever could.

And then—

The door flew open so suddenly it hit the wall with a dull thud.

Three tiny storms rushed in.

Their sons.

Ekansh came first, the eldest, five years old and already carrying a quiet seriousness that made him seem older than he was, followed closely by the twins—Rudra, soft-spoken and thoughtful, and Yuvraj, whose expression alone suggested chaos had personally chosen him as its representative.

Shankar's face changed instantly, the hardness dissolving as a real smile spread across his lips, because these three were another reason he kept living, another reason every scar, every sin, every ghost behind him suddenly felt worth it.

They were his heart walking outside his body.

"Papa! Yuvi ne mera teddy cheen liya," Rudra complained, running straight into him and wrapping his tiny arms around his father's leg with a dramatic pout.

Behind him, Yuvraj rolled his eyes with the exhaustion of a man thrice his age. "Oh, will you stop it now, Chotu? It's a waste of time. Act like a Rathore, okay?" he said, flicking imaginary dust off his sleeve with exaggerated annoyance.

Mukti covered her mouth, laughing softly, while Shankar shook his head in disbelief before bending and lifting Rudra into his arms like he weighed nothing at all. "It's okay, bacha," he murmured, patting his back, his voice carrying a warmth no one in the outside world had ever heard from him.

Then a smaller voice spoke hesitantly from behind. "Mama... when will we go to Nysaa aunty's house?" Ekansh peeked out shyly, fingers curled into his shirt, eyes flickering between his parents as if unsure whether he was allowed to ask.

Mukti crouched immediately, brushing his hair back gently. "We'll go soon, bacha. What happened?"

He hesitated, cheeks turning pink. "Mama... I made a bracelet for Jaani," he admitted in a whisper, looking down at his feet. "I wanna give it to her."

Her heart melted on the spot. "We'll go soon," she promised softly. "Then you can give it to her yourself."

He nodded eagerly and hugged her, already imagining the moment.

Right behind him, Yuvraj sighed dramatically and tossed his head. "Offo. Ekku toh kitna joru ka gulam hai," he declared with theatrical disappointment.

Silence fell.

Mukti froze.
Shankar froze.

Both slowly turned toward their youngest menace, who stood there completely unbothered, as if he hadn't just said something most grown men wouldn't dare say aloud.

They had always known Yuvraj was trouble.

They just hadn't realized trouble spoke so confidently.

And despite himself—

Shankar's lips twitched.

Because even the most feared man in the underworld, it turned out, was powerless against the tiny chaos he called his sons.

Shankar's lips twitched despite himself, the ghost of a smile threatening to betray the reputation men trembled at, because standing in front of him was not an enemy, not a rival, not a traitor—but his own son, barely tall enough to reach his waist, speaking like he chaired meetings instead of attending playtime.

Yuvraj stood there with his chin lifted and arms folded, entirely convinced he had said something profound, while Rudra sniffled dramatically in Shankar's hold and Ekansh hid half his face against Mukti's shoulder, embarrassed on behalf of his own feelings.

For a long second, the room stayed quiet.

Then Mukti cleared her throat, trying very hard not to laugh. "Yuvraj," she said gently, her lips trembling, "where did you even learn that line?"

"Mama, I am not stupid, okay," he replied under his breath, crossing his arms tighter as if that alone settled the matter.

Rudra tugged weakly at Shankar's collar, voice small and pleading. "Papa... teddy."

"Haan," Shankar murmured instantly, all his attention shifting back to him. "We'll get it back."

He glanced once at Yuvraj.

That was enough.

Yuvraj rolled his eyes—slow, dramatic, theatrical—but still walked forward and handed over the teddy, muttering, "So much drama for one toy," under his breath.

Rudra brightened immediately, clutching the teddy like a priceless treasure, his earlier sadness gone as if it had never existed, while Yuvraj sighed again like a tired old man burdened by childish siblings.

Ekansh, meanwhile, stayed close to Mukti, clearly somewhere inside his own thoughts. Shankar noticed the distracted look and lifted a brow slightly. "What happened to you, hm? Already dreaming about giving that bracelet?"

Ekansh's ears turned red.

Mukti smiled softly and brushed his hair back. "He's been waiting all morning," she said fondly.

Shankar's gaze rested on his eldest, and something in it softened. He knew that look too well. He had worn it once—years ago—when he had waited hours just to see Mukti walk into a room. Love didn't change with age. It only changed size.

"Well," he said slowly, adjusting Rudra on his hip, "then we shouldn't keep a man waiting to meet his... Jaani."

Ekansh ducked his head, flustered.

"Alright," Shankar added, voice returning to its calm authority, "five minutes. Shoes. Water bottles. No fighting. No running off. And no lectures about Rathore pride from you," he said, pointing lightly toward Yuvraj.

The three boys shuffled out slowly, though Yuvraj paused at the doorway, considering the instruction like a businessman reviewing contract terms.

"...Fine," he agreed at last, as if granting approval.

Their footsteps faded down the corridor.

Mukti turned to leave too, but Shankar's hand came to her arm, stopping her gently. She looked back at him, and in that one glance she saw everything he didn't say aloud—the love, the worry, the instinctive fear that never really left men like him.

Her expression softened.

"Aap chinta mat kijiye," she said quietly. "Hum aapko call karenge."

He didn't reply. He just leaned forward and pressed a brief kiss to her forehead, lingering there for a heartbeat before letting her go.

He watched her walk toward the door, her bangles chiming softly with each step, and for a man the world feared, that small delicate sound steadied something deep inside his chest.

A moment later her laughter drifted down the hallway, blending with the excited chatter of their children.

And standing there alone, surrounded by marble, silence, and power, Shankar realized that for all its grandeur, all its guards, all its history—

the mansion did not feel like a fortress at all.

It felt, for that brief and fragile moment, like home.

As soon as she stepped out of sight, the softness left Shankar's face like it had never existed. The warmth drained from his eyes, his jaw tightening, posture straightening, presence shifting back into something colder, sharper—something the world actually knew him as.

In one smooth motion he pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed a number he didn't even need to look at.

Nishkarshit.

His closest ally. His brother in everything except blood. They had grown up side by side, fought side by side, bled side by side, and built their empires from nothing but grit, rage, and loyalty. There were very few people in the world Shankar trusted.

Nishkarshit was one of them.

Their lives had risen together, their families had grown together, and their children... their children already belonged to each other's worlds as naturally as breathing. Years ago, when both men had still been climbing toward power, they had sealed a promise—not with contracts or signatures, but with trust.

Ekansh and Ragini.

A bond decided before either child even understood what promises meant. What had begun as friendship between two dangerous men had turned into something far deeper—a lifelong tie between families that neither of them would ever break.

The call rang.

No answer.

Shankar didn't call again.

If Nishkarshit hadn't picked up, it meant he was occupied with something important, and Shankar was not the kind of man who interrupted business without reason. Instead, his thumb moved once across the screen and he typed quickly, precisely—

Need security for kids and Mukti and Nysaa. Make it double. Actually I'm sending mine too.

He hit send.

No extra words. No explanation. None needed.

Because men like them didn't ask questions when it came to family.

They acted.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

NYSAA'S SANCTUM

The mansion shimmered like a jewel carved out of night.

Rows upon rows of diyas lined the marble pathways, their golden flames trembling in the soft evening breeze as if whispering secrets meant only for the walls that had witnessed generations. The grand entrance stood adorned with fresh marigold garlands and strings of jasmine, their fragrance floating lazily through the air, blending with the rich scent of incense, ghee, and warm sweets fresh from the kitchen. From the balconies above, silken drapes in crimson and gold cascaded like royal banners, catching the glow of fairy lights woven carefully along the railings.

Inside, the chandeliers glowed warmer than usual, reflecting off the polished floors so perfectly that every flame appeared doubled, as though the mansion itself had lit candles within its soul. Servants moved quietly through the corridors, footsteps softened by thick carpets, carrying trays of crystal glasses and silver platters piled with mithai. Somewhere in the distance, laughter rose and fell like music, drifting from the courtyard where fountains had been decorated with floating flowers and tiny lamps that bobbed gently on the water’s surface.

Near the main hall, Nysaa stood in her green shimmery saree, the delicate embroidery catching the light each time she moved. Beside her, Mukti glowed in a saree of molten gold, her bangles chiming softly as both women carefully placed ghee-filled diyas along the carved ledges and pillars. Their smiles were gentle, content — the kind worn by women who carried warmth in their presence without effort, as if festivals themselves felt safer in their hands.

At the center of the living room stood Shankar and Nishkarshit, their conversation low yet firm, the kind spoken by men accustomed to power. Beside them was Veer Singh Rathore — Shankar’s father — a man whose very stillness commanded attention. He was not merely respected; he was feared. 

The founder of the Rathore Syndicate, he had carved his empire with blood, patience, and an iron will that had never once bent. Time had silvered his hair but not his authority. His sharp gaze alone could silence a room, and even seasoned men instinctively straightened in his presence. He had never tolerated foolishness, never entertained lies, and never repeated himself. The world, in his eyes, was simple — loyalty was rewarded, betrayal was erased.

Outside, fireworks burst across the sky — bright green, shiny red, and glittery gold — their colors dancing on the mansion windows like someone was painting the walls with light. Each boom made the night sparkle, and for a second it felt like the whole palace was giggling with the sky.

Near the courtyard steps, Ekansh stood with his brothers, Rudra and Yuvraj, the three of them laughing loudly as they waved their phuljadis. The sparklers hissed and crackled, drawing wiggly silver lines in the air that looked like stars trying to run away. They shouted, ran in little circles, and compared whose sparkler was brighter, their laughter ringing like bells — free and careless, like nothing in the world could ever be serious.

Not far away, sitting quietly against the staircase, Ragini watched.

Her lehenga spread around her like a colorful puddle, one tiny hand holding its edge while the other touched the bracelet around her wrist — the one Ekansh had given her. She kept turning it again and again, eyes shining as if it were the most precious treasure in the universe. To her, it wasn’t just a bracelet. It was his bracelet. And that made it special in a way sweets and toys could never be.

After a moment, she looked up.

Her eyes searched… and found him instantly.

They always did.

The second she saw Ekansh laughing with his brothers, her cheeks turned pink without her even realizing. She didn’t know why it happened. She didn’t know what it meant. She didn’t know big words like love or promises or forever. She was only five. Her world was still made of bedtime stories, laddoos, and the excitement of new bangles.

But she knew something important.

When Ekansh was near, she felt happy.

Like when someone gave her chocolate without asking.
Like when her mother kissed her forehead.
Like when fireworks filled the sky.

Everyone always told her the same thing — that when she grew up, she would marry him. That she would be his. That she would live in this big mansion just like her mama lived with her papa. And instead of feeling shy or scared, Ragini felt excited… the way she felt before opening a gift box.

Her tiny fingers curled tightly around the bracelet.

Mrs. Ekansh Singh Rathore.

She didn’t fully understand the name. It sounded big. Royal. Important. But in her little mind, it felt like a princess title — like something from the stories she heard before sleeping.

And sitting there under a sky full of fireworks, watching the boy who made her smile without trying, Ragini decided very seriously in her heart—

That was her favorite name in the whole world.

FEW HOURS LATER

The night had still been glowing with celebration when it happened. Music still floated faintly through the halls, laughter still lingered in the corners, diyas still flickered peacefully along carved ledges as if nothing in the world could ever disturb such a perfect moment.

At first, it was only a sound.

A tray clattering somewhere deep down the corridor.

Metal striking marble.

Sharp.

Sudden.

Wrong.

The sound echoed strangely through the mansion’s vast halls, bouncing off pillars and ceilings and chandeliers, stretching longer than it should have, like it didn’t belong to the night at all.

Then—

“Fire!”

The scream tore through the air.

Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just one frightened voice of a maid whose breath was already shaking, like the word itself had burned her throat on its way out.

For a second… no one reacted. Because celebrations are loud. Because houses this big always make strange sounds. Because no one expects disaster in the middle of a festival.

But fear spreads faster than flames.

“Fire! Aag! Aag lag gayi!”

The second scream shattered everything.

Heads snapped. Conversations broke mid-word. Laughter died so suddenly it felt as though someone had snatched the sound right out of the air. A maid came running from the inner corridor, her dupatta slipping from her shoulder, bangles clashing wildly as her hands trembled and pointed behind her.

Her face had lost all color.

“Fire! Inside— inside—!” Another servant stumbled out behind her coughing violently, smoke clinging to his clothes like it had chosen him. His eyes were red. His chest heaved. He couldn’t even speak.

And then the smell came.

Not incense.
Not sweets.
Not celebration.

Smoke.

Thick. Bitter. Growing.

Inside the corridor, Nysaa and Mukti stilled at the exact same moment. Something had changed. The warmth in the air no longer felt festive. The glow of diyas didn’t feel pretty anymore. The breeze didn’t feel gentle.

It felt wrong. Slowly — almost afraid to — they turned. Flames were licking up the carved wooden pillar beside them. Not small flames.

Hungry ones.

Orange tongues crawling upward, cracking polish, blackening wood, swallowing delicate carvings that had taken craftsmen months to create. The fire moved with a frightening patience, as if it had all the time in the world to consume everything.

For one heartbeat neither woman moved.

Shock does that. It steals motion. Steals breath. Steals thought.

Then instinct took over.

They ran.

Silk rustled. Anklets clashed. Breath stumbled out of their lungs as they rushed toward the living room where Shankar and Nishkarshit were already standing alert, senses sharpened, bodies tense — men who knew the difference between noise and danger.

“Someone get the kids!” Nysaa’s voice tore out of her chest, raw, desperate, breaking halfway as tears flooded her eyes without permission. Her hands shook. Her heart was already racing ahead of her, searching for the children she couldn’t see.

Nishkarshit’s chest tightened painfully at the sight of her like that. He stepped toward her instinctively, hand lifting, wanting to steady her, to reassure her, to do something — anything —

But she shook her head hard, voice louder now, almost a scream—

“No! Go get the kids!”

Behind them— the burning pillar groaned. A low, cracking sound. Wood splitting. The flames had eaten through its strength from inside. What looked solid was hollow now. What looked strong was already dying.

The pillar tilted.

Barely.

No one noticed.

No one saw how the brick above shifted loose. No one saw how the support had already given way. No one saw—

Except Shankar.

His eyes lifted.

Locked.

And in that instant the world stopped existing. Sound vanished. Heat vanished. Chaos vanished.

There was only Mukti. Standing beneath the falling pillar.

Something ancient and primal surged through him, something louder than thought, faster than reason. His breath cut off as every memory he had ever lived with her flashed violently across his mind — her laughter echoing through halls, her annoyed glances, her quiet smiles, her voice saying his name, the way she filled spaces simply by being in them.

His life.

“MUKTI!”

The scream ripped out of his lungs as he lunged forward. The pillar fell. A deafening crack exploded through the hall as it came crashing down —but it didn’t strike her. Shankar had already reached her.

His arms locked around her, pulling her into his chest, his body twisting, shielding, turning his back to the impact without hesitation, without fear, without even thinking what it would cost him.

The weight slammed into him.

Wood shattered. Dust burst upward. Fire sparks scattered like furious stars.

“N—NO—!” Nysaa’s scream tore through the smoke as she stumbled forward, horror ripping across her face. “Mukti—!”

Heat hit her. Smoke flooded her lungs. The world tilted violently. Through blurred vision she saw only shapes — fallen wood, flames crawling, Shankar buried beneath debris, Mukti trapped against him, his arm still wrapped around her even now.

Her head spun.

The floor rose.

And darkness swallowed her whole as she collapsed.

Outside—

another scream echoed.

Nishkarshit tried to run. God knew he tried. His legs moved before thought, heart slamming wildly against his ribs as he rushed toward the exit, toward the courtyard, toward his children—

—but before he could reach it—

another pillar crashed down in front of him.

The impact shook the ground. Dust exploded. Fire roared higher, spreading across fallen wood like it had been waiting for more to devour.

The way was blocked.

He couldn’t go out.

He couldn’t go forward.

And behind him—

his best friend lay somewhere under fire.

His wife lay unconscious beyond it.

And he could do nothing.

Outside in the courtyard, the world had become something children were never meant to see.

Firelight painted the walls wild orange. Smoke curled through the air like dark snakes. The sky still burst with fireworks above — bright, beautiful, cruelly unaware of the horror below.

Ragini stood frozen.

Her tiny hands trembled. Her chest rose and fell too fast. Flames reflected in her wide eyes, turning them glassy and frightened.

Not far away, Rudra clung to Ekansh with desperate strength, sobbing into his shoulder, small fingers gripping fabric as if letting go meant falling into the fire itself. Yuvraj stood a little distance away, trying so hard not to cry, trying to be brave because he was older, because he thought he had to be strong —

—but he was still a child.

His lip shook. His eyes filled.

He stepped back. Closer to the flames.

Ragini saw it.

She didn’t think.

She ran. Her small feet carried her forward before fear could catch her, lehenga gathered in her fists as she rushed toward him through smoke and heat, heart hammering wildly inside her tiny chest.

“Jaani nooooo—!”

Ekansh’s scream broke apart as it left him, his arms tightening around Rudra while tears spilled freely down his face. He didn’t wipe them. Didn’t care who saw. Didn’t care about anything.

Not when she was running toward danger.

Toward fire.

Toward death.

Ragini glanced back mid-run, eyes shining, voice stubborn and breathless and brave in that innocent way only children can be— 

“Jaana take Rudra inside! I’ll bring Yuvi!”

And before he could reach her— she grabbed Yuvraj’s hand.

Pulled him.

Turned—

—and then—

BOOM.

A pillar collapsed.

The sound was deafening. The ground shook. Dust exploded upward in a blinding cloud. Fire leapt. Sparks scattered. Smoke swallowed everything.

Ekansh saw nothing after that.

The world tilted.

Darkness crashed over him.

His body gave out, Rudra still clutched tightly in his arms even as he fainted, fingers locked like he was afraid someone might take his brother if he let go.

The mansion that had been glowing like a festival dream only moments ago now roared like something furious, something alive, something that had woken up starving.

And somewhere through the chaos, through the pounding footsteps and cracking wood and rising screams—

someone cried out again.

Not a warning this time.

A name.

“Jaaniiii…!”

The voice faded into smoke…

…into fire…

…into silence.

And into memory.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Deewangi Writess