The night burned.

It began as a whisper—dry grass catching, crackling, hissing—and then, all at once, the flames roared to life. They climbed the air like living creatures, curling tongues of orange and gold against the moonless black. Heat rippled outward, pressing against the ancient stone walls of Rudrakund's palace. The forested hills that cradled the village threw back the firelight in restless shadows, as though the land itself wanted to look away but couldn't.

The smell was impossible to ignore—sweet sandalwood smoke tangled with the bitter stench of burning cloth and hair. It was the scent of both ritual and ruin.

Inside a small chamber—a bridal chamber—someone screamed.

Her voice cut through the chaos, raw and jagged. The woman in red pressed herself against the locked door, the embroidered folds of her lehenga shimmering in the light of her destruction. Gold threads caught every flicker, each glint turning into something sinister, almost mocking.

"No! Please, don't do this! Let me go!"

Her hands—small, delicate, henna-stained—beat against the wood. Bangles clashed violently at her wrists, their sweet chime twisted into a desperate rhythm. The kohl around her eyes had run in black rivulets, carrying with it the last trace of her bridal grace. A streak of sindoor, once proud and bright, had smudged into a crimson wound at her hairline.

"Someone, help me! I didn't do anything!" She choked on smoke, coughing between words. "Don't burn me! I'm not what you think I am!"

The door stayed shut.

Outside, the villagers had gathered with torches, their faces lit in feverish shades of orange. Rage twisted their expressions; fear sharpened their eyes. And beneath it all was something older than either—an ancient, unspoken dread that had haunted Rudrakund for generations.

"She bewitched the king!" one spat, his voice trembling as much from conviction as from terror.
"She walks in shadows!" cried another.
"She must burn!"

They pressed forward, parting only when the tallest figure in the crowd stepped into view. A golden crown rested on his head, dulled by ash and soot. His robes bore the marks of a hurried coronation, but his eyes... once warm, they were now hollowed out, two dark wells that reflected nothing.

"She is not what she appears to be," he said, his voice carrying over the mob. "She brought death to this land. She cannot be allowed to live."

His words were met with a swell of approval, the crowd's voices joining into one fevered chant.

Inside, the woman sank to her knees, forehead pressed to the cold wood. Her lips moved silently at first, as though afraid to speak what they truly wanted to say. And then, so faint it could have been a sigh:

"...please..."

The fire outside answered her with a crack louder than before. Heat crawled through the stone walls, finding every gap, every opening. A roof beam groaned overhead.

"No! No, no, no—please!" she screamed again, the sound so sharp it seemed to slice through the night air.

When the flames reached her veil, it caught instantly—red silk blooming into gold fire. She didn't try to smother it. She simply screamed.

It wasn't a cry for help anymore. It was the sound of something breaking so completely that no one—not gods, not fate, not the living—could mend it.

The roof gave way. The fire swallowed the rest.

And Rudrakund fell silent.

Rithvik woke with a gasp, the sound of that scream still ringing in his ears.

The room around him was dim and harmless, painted in the pale gold of Delhi's early morning sun. No flames. No charred walls. No smell of burning silk. His bedsheet clung to him, damp with sweat, and his hair stuck to his forehead. For a long moment, he didn't move, afraid that if he did, the vision might follow him into waking.

It always started the same way. The fire. The cries. The woman's voice—sharp enough to cut into bone, soft enough to cling to memory.

He'd never seen her face clearly, not in any dream. Only fragments. The shimmer of her dress. The smudge of red at her hairline. The frantic jingle of her anklets. But the sound of her voice—he could swear it belonged to someone he'd known his entire life. Someone who had been waiting for him.

Rithvik swung his legs over the side of the bed and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. "It's that dream again..." he murmured to himself.

Three nights in a row now, and it hadn't dulled. If anything, the details sharpened each time—new scents, clearer voices, brighter flames. He didn't believe in omens. Not really. But this was something else. Something insistent.

He rose, walked to the window, and pulled it open.

Delhi's skyline stretched in the distance, cars honking below, the smell of street vendors already rising with the morning heat. Ordinary life was unfolding without him, as it always did. But inside, something had shifted—something restless that no city street could quiet.

His gaze drifted to the small wooden drawer by his desk. He pulled it open. Inside lay a single, weathered photograph: his childhood home in Rudrakund. A simple, sloped-roof house nestled between hills, half-hidden by a grove of peepal trees. He had been born there. Had run through its dusty lanes barefoot. Had left it behind at ten years old.

Twelve years was a long time. Long enough to let the place fade into memory. But now, the image burned in his mind as clearly as the dream.

He traced the photo with his thumb and whispered to himself, "It's time."

By afternoon, his room looked like a storm had passed through. Jeans and shirts lay in untidy piles, a worn leather duffel sat half-packed on the bed. On the desk, a small gift box—wrapped neatly in red paper—waited for Mausa ji, the uncle who had raised him after his parents' sudden passing.

The phone on his nightstand buzzed.

Aman: Yo, still alive? Or dreaming about ghosts again?

A small smile tugged at Rithvik's lips as he typed back:
Tickets booked. Coming to Rudrakund. I'll be there before Shivaratri.

Seconds later, the phone rang.

"You're serious?!" Aman's voice blasted through the speaker.

"Yeah," Rithvik said, tossing a shirt into the bag. "It's time I came back. I need answers."

"Answers? Bro, it's Rudrakund, not Hogwarts. The only thing you'll get are cobwebs and creepy uncles."

"Maybe," Rithvik said, his voice lowering, "but the dream... it's not normal. I need to know why I keep seeing her. Why it feels real."

A pause crackled on the line.

"We missed you, man," Aman said finally, his voice softer now.

The warmth of the words caught Rithvik off guard. He smiled faintly.

"And, uh," Aman continued, "Rudrakund's gotten... weird since you left. People talk about sounds at night. Lights in the forest. Even Maai doesn't step outside after sunset anymore."

Rithvik's grip on the phone tightened. "Maai's still alive?"

"Of course. That woman will outlive us all."

But Rithvik wasn't smiling anymore. The image of the burning woman flashed behind his eyes, so vivid it made his skin prickle.

"I'll be there soon," he said.

By evening, he was on the train.

The city lights of Delhi blurred into darkness as the carriages rattled across the tracks. Rithvik sat by the window, earbuds in, though the music was little more than background noise. His thoughts were somewhere far ahead—already in Rudrakund.

The reflection in the glass stared back at him. Dark eyes under heavy brows. Slight stubble along his jaw. The faint white scar on his left hand from a childhood accident—one he barely remembered the cause of. Yet tonight, that reflection felt foreign, like he was looking at a stranger who carried pieces of a past he didn't understand.

He leaned back against the seat, watching the moon rise over the hills. Tonight, it was swollen and red, hanging low as though it were watching him.

A warning.
Or a welcome.

And somewhere deep in the silence between the rattling wheels and the wind against the glass, he thought—just for a moment—that he heard it again.

That scream.

End of the Chapter