Anweshi looked around, eyes wide with wonder.

  The field stretched endlessly before her — lush, green, and flawless, like a golf course untouched by

  time. Behind her, a dense forest rose like a wall of shadow. Ahead, beyond the field, stood a city that

  seemed plucked from the pages of a 19th-century European painting — cobbled streets, tall spires, and

  antique lamps that flickered without flame.

  There was no sun in the sky. And yet, everything was bathed in a soft white glow, warm and even — as

  if the light itself breathed gently from the air around them.

  She turned to Adam, who stood beside her with a grin tugging at the corner of his lips — part pride, part

  mischief.

  “Why do you call this place the Dark Realm?” she asked. “And the Shadow Empire…? It doesn’t feel

  dark at all.”

  Adam’s smile deepened. “Because it is dark, Anu. You just haven’t seen those parts yet.”

  He spoke softly but clearly. “We use shadow magic. We command creatures born from darkness.

  Some places here are so ancient, so twisted by time, that even our brightest day feels darker than your

  longest night. There are a thousand reasons why we carry that name.”

  “But all I see is a town,” she said gently. “A beautiful one, yes. But… very human.”

  He turned to her fully then, the smile fading just enough to make room for something else — something

  older, heavier.

  “Don’t say human,” he said, not unkindly, but firm. “There are no humans here. This is Chāyajanā.

  We are not like you. You can call us that — the Shadowborn.”

  She nodded slowly, absorbing the word like a fragile truth.

  “But… do they understand my language?” she asked, suddenly self-conscious. “Will they understand

  me?”

  Adam smiled again, more warmly now. “Our people speak four main languages — Tamil, Malayalam,

  Draviida, and English. The first Emperor of Chā yajanā came from your land, you know. He brought

  with him broken Malayalam and ancient Draviida. Over time, they evolved into what we speak now.”

  He gestured ahead as he spoke, his voice becoming a thread of history.

  “Since Malayalam didn’t have a formal script back then, he chose Tamil — Senthamizh — as the

  language of the scholars. Sacred. Structured. Limited to a chosen few.”

  “English,” he continued, “came much later. The Tenth Emperor once traveled your world and made

  contact with an empire that spoke English. He admired their culture — thought them advanced,

  disciplined. He adopted parts of their system. English became the tongue of our nobles. It still is.”

  He looked at her, seeing the swirl of confusion in her face.

  “So,” he said gently, “as long as you speak ancient Malayalam or old Draviida, people here will

  understand you. Speak in English, and only the noble class will respond. And if you hear pure Tamil…

  know that you’re in the presence of something sacred.”

  She blinked, still processing. “And you? You speak… all of them?”

  He smirked. “All four. Plus three dialects from nearby kingdoms. And two beast languages. Broken

  ones, but they do the job.”

  “I only speak Malayalam and English,” she said, glancing at the ground.

  “That’s more than enough,” he said, his tone softening.

  Then he looked past her and nodded toward the field. “Oh, look. Here they come.”

  She turned.

  Across the grass, four children ran toward them — two boys, two girls — their laughter light as wind

  chimes, their footsteps kicking up flecks of magic with each step.

  Devi Chandana staggered as she was escorted out of the cell — her body trembling, frail from days of

  relentless torment. Her legs barely supported her, and each step was like dragging the weight of her

  memories with her. Two guards gripped her arms firmly, one on each side, guiding her forward like a

  lifeless doll between them.

  It was the first time she’d seen the corridor beyond her cell.

  Until now, any movement outside had been done in complete darkness — a thick leather blindfold

  always strapped over her eyes, tight enough to choke out even the memory of light. The only places she

  had known since her capture were the four suffocating walls of her stone cell… and the cold metal of

  the torture room.

  Now, for the first time, her bare eyes blinked into a world still cloaked in shadow.

  The corridor was long, carved of dark grey stone and coated in a blackish sheen. The walls shimmered

  like they had been polished with ash. Dim white lights hummed overhead, casting elongated, distorted

  shadows that danced faintly with each step she took. There was no sound but the echo of boots and the

  faint electric buzz.

  It felt like being led through a dream — or a mausoleum.

  Ahead, near a heavy steel door, two women stood waiting. They wore the same grey uniforms as her

  captors, but unlike the red-banded armbands her guards wore, theirs were white — stark and symbolic.

  Protocol.

  Devi’s gaze flicked to them and then back to the floor. Her lips were dry, cracked. Her mind was still

  fogged from pain and silence, but her instincts remained sharp. Something had changed. This wasn’t

  another torture session.

  One of the guards grunted softly and addressed the women without ceremony.

  “She needs to be cleaned, clothed, and fed. The prince expects her in the garden by evening.”

  The word garden hung in the air like poison laced with honey.

  The women nodded silently, stepping forward to receive her. Their expressions were unreadable —

  professional, but not unkind. Yet Devi did not feel relief.

  No.

  The worst things never came with screams or blades.

  They came with calm instructions.

  They came with food and clean clothes.

  They came when the Crown Prince summoned you to a garden.

  She didn’t speak — couldn’t. Her throat burned too much. But her eyes, swollen and sunken, flicked

  upward as the guards released her to the women. Her knees buckled slightly before one of them caught

  her gently by the elbow.

  “Easy,” the woman said softly. “We’ll take care of you.”

  But Devi didn’t believe in kindness here. Not anymore.

  Because the moment she heard he was waiting —

  Adam John Black —

  she knew:

  This wasn’t a reprieve.

  This was an invitation to a new kind of torment.

  And maybe, just maybe, something far worse than pain.

  A soft creak echoed as the heavy iron door shut behind her. The garden beyond was unlike anything

  Devi Chandana had seen before—if it could even be called a garden. A thick black smoke curled

  through the air like a living thing, swallowing the light, obscuring everything in a haunting veil. The scent

  of wet stone and burnt incense filled her lungs as she stepped forward, her bare feet brushing against

  dew-kissed grass hidden beneath the haze.

  “Welcome, Madam Devi Chandana.”

  A warm voice, calm and composed, floated through the darkness. Instinctively, she turned, her eyes

  scanning the shadows for a shape, a figure—anything. But the voice had no source. It was everywhere

  and nowhere.

  She froze, one hand clutching the edge of her tattered shawl. Then, with cautious resolve, she stepped

  deeper into the smoky abyss.

  “I am Joshua John Black,” the voice continued, smoother now, closer. “Second Prince of the Empire.

  Younger brother to Adam.”

  From within the swirling gloom, a shape began to form. A tall, lean man emerged as if molded by the

  shadows themselves. Unlike Adam, who had an air of controlled brutality, this one wore refinement

  like a second skin. An elegant European suit from a forgotten century hugged his frame, rich in texture

  and detail—completely out of place and time. No mask concealed his face. His skin was pale olive, his

  beard trimmed, and a perfectly shaped moustache framed a slight, charming smile.

  “You alright?” he asked playfully, stepping within inches of her, his voice a teasing whisper near her

  ear. “You look like you're studying me.”

  Startled, she looked away. “No... I—I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry,” she stammered, the old fear clawing

  back into her chest like a reflex.

  He chuckled gently. “No harm done. You were a investigator once, right? That habit of observation

  doesn't fade easily.”

  His fingers flicked in the air, and with a slow wave of his hand, the black smoke began to peel away like

  fog under sunlight.

  What was revealed stole her breath.

  The garden was immense—no, a kingdom in itself. A surreal landscape where canals of dark water

  trickled like veins through the soil, winding among endless rows of blooming flowers. But all the petals

  were shades of black—glossy obsidian, deep charcoal, velvet ink. Some glowed faintly with a strange

  iridescence. In the distance, small pavilions dotted the horizon like stars in an ocean of darkness, each

  with ornate rooftops and elegant furnishings.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Joshua asked, his tone light, but his eyes watched her carefully.

  Devi swallowed. “Yes… it's beautiful. But…” she hesitated. “Everything is black.”

  Joshua smiled knowingly. “My brother’s obsession. Every Emperor before him loved black. A symbol

  of the Empire, of its history, its silence, and its control.”

  He extended a hand to her. “Come. Take my hand.”

  She hesitated.

  His expression remained patient, but firm. “Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you.”

  Something in her moved—perhaps weariness, perhaps curiosity. Her hand lifted slowly and met his.

  A jolt.

  For a single, dizzying instant, the world around her shattered like a mirror. It was as if time had blinked.

  The garden dissolved and reassembled in the same breath.

  When she opened her eyes, they were seated in one of the distant pavilions she had glimpsed earlier.

  The garden still stretched endlessly in all directions, but the air here was clearer, lighter. Wind moved

  gently through the hanging curtains.

  “Sit,” he said, gesturing to the chair beside her as he settled across from her with casual grace. “Don’t

  worry, I don’t plan to torture you.”

  His smile was disarming, but her body responded before her mind could object. She sat, stiff and

  unsure.

  He poured a black liquid into a glass—thick, almost syrupy, but it shimmered faintly in the light.

  “Drink. It’ll help,” he offered.

  She stared at it, suspicious, then took a sip. Bitterness struck her tongue like ash—but in seconds, warmth

  surged through her. Her muscles loosened. Her mind cleared. Her breathing deepened. Her fear

  retreated.

  She looked at him, astonished.

  He nodded slowly. “Amrith. Not the myth. Our creation. Rare. Only for the Royal Family and those

  honored by the Emperor—or his children.”

  He leaned back, eyes studying her. “To someone from your world, it may feel like a miracle. It brings

  back what was taken—strength, clarity, balance. Even memory.”

  She remained silent, but her eyes said more than her lips ever could.

  Joshua tilted his head. “You were broken. Now you’re not.”

  For the first time, she didn’t flinch.

  He smiled.

  Joshua’s smile faded as he leaned back in his chair. For a moment, silence claimed the pavilion—only

  the sound of distant water and rustling petals remained.

  “My brother…” he began softly.

  He glanced up, catching the subtle shift in her expression—the involuntary tightening of her jaw, the

  flicker of fear in her eyes at the mere mention of him. He paused, reading her like an open page, then

  lowered his gaze with a small, knowing smile.

  “I understand,” he said gently, the warmth in his voice clouded by something deeper—grief, perhaps.

  “Fear is the only thing he’s allowed to remain in most people’s memories.”

  He rose and walked slowly to the edge of the pavilion, where a faint light shimmered in the distance. It

  wasn’t sunlight. It was pale and quiet, like the afterglow of dying stars, casting long shadows across the

  blackened garden.

  “This dim white light…” he said, letting the words hang. “It’s the only thing that separates this place

  from total darkness. Just a few years ago, even this wasn’t here.”

  He rested a hand on the carved stone pillar, eyes lost in the distant glow.

  “For centuries, this garden was no sanctuary. It was a prison,” he continued. “A perfect one. You see,

  the warriors of our Empire—the Knights of the Shadow—we were born in black. We see in it, breathe

  in it, live in it. But the prisoners? They couldn’t see a thing. They never knew what was coming. Every

  second they existed here was pure fear.”

  His voice grew softer, but sharper. “Then… when my brother was named Crown Prince, everything

  changed. He had the lights built. Just a few. Subtle, dim. He said, Even beasts deserve a little rest.”

  Joshua turned slightly, the shadows etching his features.

  “After Mother died… he built this garden for us. For his siblings. For me, and the others—two brothers,

  two sisters in all. This garden became our place of healing. A space to forget that the world above still

  called us monsters. Here, we remembered we were just children who lost a mother.”

  He turned back to her, and Devi’s breath caught at the weight behind his stare.

  “Whatever you believe about him, Chandana… that light out there—is my brother. The one who existed

  before your nobles and your knights shattered him into pieces.”

  Devi sat stiffly, her hands knotted in her lap. Her lips parted slightly, as if to speak—but no words came.

  The confusion in her eyes, mingled with fear, was answer enough.

  Joshua stepped down from the pavilion. His polished boots crunched softly over the black pebbles as

  he reached toward a bed of dark flowers. He plucked a single dahlia—its petals deep obsidian, soft and

  flawless.

  “You don’t understand what you helped destroy,” he said, holding the flower between his fingers like

  it was something sacred. “He believed in you… in your kind. He went to your world. Lived among you.

  Disguised his power, his name, his truth. He thought he could help you reclaim what you'd forgotten—

  honor, purpose, restraint.”

  He returned to her and placed the flower gently on the table between them.

  “My brother is strong—stronger than any of us. Strong enough to smile, even as his body is torn apart

  piece by piece. But even he needed something to ground him. Something fragile. A reason not to drown

  in rage.”

  Joshua’s eyes gleamed, not with anger, but sorrow.

  “He found that reason. A treasure. Something soft and living. Something… mortal. So he built her a

  castle here—in the heart of this garden, where time flows slow, and nothing fades. He thought he could

  protect her. That she would live long enough to see the world he dreamed of. That she would die only

  after him.”

  He paused, voice thick.

  “But you took her. Your nobles took her. You all shattered what was left of him.”

  He stepped back, the dahlia between them casting a long shadow across the polished table.

  “Whatever you see in him now, Chandana… remember: you made that monster.”

  “No!”

  John’s voice thundered through the cramped police station, sharp enough to make the junior constable

  flinch. He slammed both palms down on the rusted metal desk, eyes blazing at the officer seated across

  from him.

  “You don’t get to tell me she’s ‘probably safe’!” he growled. “If you can’t find her—if anything happens

  to her—remember this face.”

  The officer opened his mouth to respond, but John was already storming out.

  The door slammed behind him with a violent crack, shaking in its hinges. The corridor echoed with

  his boots hitting the tiled floor. He didn’t slow down—not for anyone.

  Outside, the wind had picked up, warm and dust-laced. Varun was standing beside their car, arms

  crossed, waiting. He straightened as soon as he saw John coming.

  John didn’t pause.

  “Varun, I don’t care what you do. I don’t give a fuck about what I have to lose. I need her back. Can

  you help me?”

  Varun give a single firm nod.

  John turned sharply, and walking into the driving seat

  “Fuckers” he barked. “I will find her, me, John. I will show them how to do it”

  “Never expected a palace like this here, did you?” Joshua said with a quiet smile, watching the girl

  beside him.

  Chandana said nothing at first. The air around them felt reverent—still, sacred. Beneath the soft white

  light above, the palace rose like a vision from another world. Walls of sapphire and cobalt glowed

  gently, as though lit from within. In this world of black, the blue palace stood apart—like a memory that

  refused to fade.

  “Why is this palace… blue?” Chandana asked, her voice caught between awe and confusion.

  Joshua stood in silence for a beat, then turned his eyes toward the structure. A slow, melancholic smile

  curled his lips.

  “Because she had blue eyes,” he said quietly, as if speaking the words to the wind.

  He stepped forward, stopping just before the towering gate. It was forged from a strange, silvery-black

  alloy, its surface laced with glowing blue lines that pulsed softly—like veins under skin. Joshua placed a

  hand over an etched rune and whispered something in a language Chandana didn’t recognize.

  The symbols shimmered, then dissolved like dust scattered in moonlight.

  “Protected by ancient magic,” he murmured. “Only we—his siblings—can open it.”

  With a flick of his hand, the gates creaked open—not like metal moved by force, but like a living thing

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  welcoming someone it remembered.

  Chandana moved closer, eyes flicking between the palace and the prince beside her. His posture was

  collected, composed. But his mood—like everything about him—shifted like weather. In the pavilion,

  he’d burned with grief and bitterness. Now, he was still. Cold. Almost gentle.

  He caught her watching.

  “What is it?” he asked, his tone softened.

  “I don’t understand you,” she said honestly. “Back there… you accused me. Said I helped break your

  brother. Now you bring me here. You show me this. Why?”

  Joshua didn’t look at her immediately. His eyes remained fixed on the blue-lit halls beyond the open

  gate.

  “Because you’re a Knight,” he said. “Just like me.”

  She stared at him, confused. But he continued before she could speak.

  “You endured his torture, his silence, his wrath—and still kept your pride. That’s rare. Impressive, even.

  At first, I wondered why he didn’t kill you. But now I think I understand.” He turned to her. “Maybe

  he saw what I see now.”

  Chandana narrowed her eyes. “And what is that exactly?”

  Joshua smiled faintly, but there was a glint in his gaze now—something sharper, something dangerous

  and honest all at once.

  “A soul that has nowhere left to return. A warrior who was forced to become one. And a survivor who

  doesn’t realize yet that she’s standing at the edge of a second life.”

  He stepped toward the door, then paused and looked back.

  “The world you knew may be gone by the time you return, Chandana. You know that, don’t you? So…

  I’m offering you a place here. With us. Among the Knights of the Shadow.”

  She stared at him for a long moment, her face unreadable. But behind her silence, something stirred—

  curiosity… or pity.

  “What makes you think I’d ever accept that?” she asked finally.

  “I don’t,” Joshua said, without missing a beat. “But I think you’ll listen. Walk with me. Hear me out.

  Then decide.”

  With that, he turned and walked through the blue-lit gate, vanishing into the shadows of the palace.

  Chandana stood still. Just for a moment.

  Then she followed—into the place built for a girl with blue eyes, into the memory of a brother’s love,

  into the heart of the shadow that once believed in light.

  A soft breeze rustled through the violet grass as the sun dipped beneath the jagged hills of the Shadow

  Empire. The silence was broken by the joyful giggle of a little girl racing across the open field, her tiny

  feet barely touching the ground as she hurled herself into the arms of a young girl with striking deep

  blue eyes.

  “Is she your little sister?” the blue-eyed girl asked softly, holding the child close with a surprised but

  warm smile.

  The boy beside her, maybe seventeen, gave a small, proud laugh. “Yes. She’s the youngest among us,”

  he said, his dark eyes following the others approaching from the distance. “But in terms of power…

  she’s the oldest.”

  She turned her head, curious.

  “That one there,” he pointed to the boy walking just ahead, “is Joshua—my elder brother. He’s always

  been the one chasing my shadow.” His smile turned playful for a second.

  Beside Joshua walked a girl with braided hair and a bouquet of black roses in her hands. “That’s Joanna,

  his twin. Born just minutes after him, but she acts like she’s ten years older.”

  Then his voice dropped an octave as he pointed to the last figure—a boy trailing behind them with a

  fox-like grin and mischief in his eyes. “That troublemaker at the back is Josiah. My younger brother.

  Don't let the smile fool you.”

  He looked down fondly at the girl still clinging to the visitor. “And the one hugging you like a koala?

  That’s Adina. Our youngest—and maybe our fiercest.”

  The blue-eyed girl blinked, then frowned playfully. “Wait—your name is Adam, right? You and Adina

  rhyme, but the others… not even close. What happened?”

  Adam chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well… My name comes from the First King—he was

  the first to ever step outside this world. A legend. And Adina? She was his daughter. A warrior so feared

  that even our shadows obeyed her. My father wanted us all named after that line.”

  He glanced toward his siblings and added with a smirk, “But my mother had her own ideas. She named

  the rest of us after her ancestors. The naming... it turned into a battle of pride between them.”

  The girl burst out laughing. “Sounds like your family needs a council meeting just to name a pet!”

  Adam smiled. “Welcome to the land of darkness and shadows, madam.”

  Just then, Joshua stepped forward, raising an eyebrow. “So? What do we call her?”

  Adam turned to his siblings, his tone mock-official. “I vote we call her… Anweshi.”

  Joanna wrinkled her nose, shaking her head with a grin. “Nooo. I’m calling her Big Sis. Or maybe

  Princess. Something worthy of a future Queen.”

  She stepped forward and placed the bouquet of black roses in Martha’s hands. “Big sis, I love that so

  much”

  Suddenly, a small voice tugged at the moment.

  “Can I call you Sis-Mother?” Adina asked, her wide eyes filled with hope. “My brother said he’d bring

  our mom back… and then he brought you.”

  Martha stood frozen for a heartbeat. Her eyes locked with Adam’s—his gaze heavy, silent.

  Then she bent down, wrapped her arms around the child, and lifted her gently. “You can call me

  anything you want, sweetheart,” she whispered, pressing a soft kiss to the girl’s forehead. “From now

  on… I’ll take care of you. I promise.”

  The palace welcomed them not with grandeur, but with silence.

  As Chandana stepped inside, her breath caught in her throat. The air was still—cool and heavy, as

  though time itself had stopped to hold its breath. Blue light shimmered from crystal-like veins that

  pulsed softly across the walls and ceiling, casting faint reflections that rippled like water across the

  polished obsidian floor.

  Every surface glowed with quiet memory—walls etched in ancient flowing script, archways carved like

  constellations frozen in stone. This was no palace. It was a tomb of love. A sanctuary of sorrow.

  The scent of lavender and faint smoke lingered in the still air—familiar, haunting, and impossibly

  eternal. Chandana reached out instinctively, her fingers brushing against the cold stone railing lining the

  corridor. The palace felt alive, yet suspended in grief. Each inch of it whispered stories—tales trapped

  in silence, preserved by shadow.

  At the far end of the vast hall, something waited.

  A single chair, carved from obsidian and wrapped in faded blue silk, sat beneath a shaft of pale light

  spilling from a skylight above. Just beyond it, the floor dipped into a small, lowered platform—a shallow

  sublevel ringed with black stone. There, dark and dried petals lay scattered like ashes. Flowers that had

  once bloomed for someone now long gone.

  Joshua walked ahead of her, slow and steady, as if each step pressed deeper into memory. His shoulders

  carried a quiet weight, as though he was walking not through a hall—but through a wound.

  “She lived here,” he said finally, voice almost a whisper.

  He pointed down toward the lowered floor. “That is her tomb.”

  He moved toward the chair and stopped beside it, his hand drifting gently over the worn silk.

  “He brought her here once,” he murmured. “To the Obsidian Palace. To meet Father. She was

  nervous—terrified, actually. But she liked the chair my father sat on that day. So… Big Brother made

  one just like it. For her. Said this place would be her sanctuary.”

  His eyes softened with the memory, then drifted to a door beside the platform. He walked to it slowly,

  paused, and turned to Chandana.

  “Do you remember your first case, Chandana?”

  She blinked, startled by the sudden question.

  “The body of a girl,” he said. “Covered in wounds. Eyeless. Her face clawed beyond recognition. She

  was found alone in the corner of a mortuary. No one claimed her. No one cared.”

  He turned fully now and pointed toward the wall.

  “Does that portrait look familiar?”

  Chandana followed his gaze—and froze.

  Hanging high on the far wall was a massive painting. The girl in the portrait was young—barely more

  than a child. Her blue eyes shimmered even in the dim glow, and her soft smile was touched with

  innocence and light.

  “She… is…” Chandana whispered, her voice failing her.

  Joshua’s voice turned to ice.

  “Now you understand why my brother kidnapped you. You closed her case. Marked it cold. Claimed

  there was no evidence.”

  “But…” Chandana tried to gather her thoughts, “but kidnapping me alone—it’s not…”

  “Worthy enough?” Joshua interrupted, a smile curling at the edge of his lips. “You think my brother is

  that impulsive? That dumb? He’s the genius of the Black family for a reason, Chandana.”

  Chandana narrowed her eyes. “What are you saying?”

  Joshua’s tone darkened—but not with anger. With certainty.

  “How many rooms did you see in that prison?” he asked.

  She opened her mouth, then closed it. Her eyes widened. The realization hit her like thunder.

  “That prison…” she said slowly, “it’s magic.”

  Joshua nodded. “Everything here is. Either illusion… or shadow. That prison doesn’t have fixed

  architecture. It grows. Expands. Rooms appear only for prisoners. When Big Brother brought you in—

  it had one. When we pulled you out a few hours ago… it had fifteen.”

  He gave a quiet chuckle.

  “Now? I think it’s closer to twenty.”

  “You…” Chandana raised a trembling finger toward him—but then paused, lowered her hand, and

  spoke more calmly. “Who else is in there?”

  Joshua tilted his head, voice calm but clear.

  “Your minister. Your officers. The knights who signed the report.”

  He watched her carefully.

  “All for one girl?” Chandana asked, her voice low. Almost reverent.

  Joshua’s answer came like a blade:

  “Not just any girl. She was our Crowned Princess.”

  “Sir, what you're asking is impossible to pull off,” the military officer said firmly, his black uniform crisp,

  medals glinting faintly under the fluorescent lights.

  The room was packed.

  A circular war-room with a high table at its center, surrounded by high-ranking officers—police, military,

  national security, intelligence, and internal affairs. Screens around the room displayed faces—some

  blurred, some marked MISSING, some already crossed out. At the front of the room, DGP Ahamed

  Faizal stood beneath the rotating digital gallery.

  “Brigadier,” Ahamed began, turning toward the uniformed man. “I understand your hesitation. But the

  situation is far more severe than you realize.”

  “So, you believe this?” an elderly man in a grey suit asked from across the table. “You really believe…

  he’ll strike again?”

  “Yes, sir,” Ahamed replied, wiping sweat from his brow. “I do.”

  “Impossible,” Brigadier Bimal Nair muttered, barely audible. “The original list had over a hundred

  names. Protecting them was already a logistical nightmare. Now you’re telling me there are over a

  thousand?”

  “I believe so,” Ahamed repeated calmly.

  The tension rose. Murmurs buzzed across the room like static.

  A middle-aged man in a suit—Chief Secretary Sathyaraj—raised his voice. “This only proves one thing:

  the police force is no longer capable. You let him slip through. Now the military’s in control. You really

  think some masked lunatic can outsmart us?”

  Ahamed’s eyes flashed. “My force, sir? You’re calling us incapable? Do you even know who this

  ‘masked lunatic’ is?”

  He turned toward an elderly man seated quietly until now. “Sir, if you would.”

  The man straightened. “Adith Sharma. Director, R.A.W.”

  He opened a thick file on the table. “What DGP Ahamed is telling you… is not just a security threat.

  It’s a national crisis.”

  He gestured to Ahamed. “The abduction images, please.”

  Ahamed nodded. The screen behind him changed—showing grainy CCTV footage, streets, buildings,

  silhouettes in motion… then static.

  “As you can see,” Adith said, turning pages in his file, “every kidnapping site was under surveillance—

  except the first one. The IPS officer. What was her name again?”

  “ASP Devi Chandana,” Ahamed answered, glaring at Sathyaraj. “She was the first. That kidnapping was

  deliberate. Not for revenge—but reconnaissance.”

  Adith nodded. “Exactly. He didn’t strike again for a full week. During that time, he approached

  Ahamed personally.”

  “He came to my home,” Ahamed said, voice low. “In the middle of the night. Gave me a pen drive.

  Said it held the truth about a case Chandana worked on five years ago. Information we never had. Then

  gave me 20 days to find and punish the people responsible.”

  “But he didn’t wait 20 days, did he?” Adith cut in. “He struck again after just five.”

  He turned a page. “Exactly 12 days after he took Chandana.”

  The screen changed again—to a chilling image: a thick wave of black smoke flooding a street. People

  inside it frozen in place.

  “This is where the pattern begins. Every time he strikes, black smoke engulfs the area. When it clears,

  everyone inside is dead—except the target, who vanishes without a trace.”

  “He took twelve days between the first and second abduction,” Adith continued. “But then? No breaks.

  For thirteen straight days, he hit target after target. That's when we got involved. Then a short two-day

  pause—and under military surveillance, he kidnapped seven more people. Seven. In one hour.

  Different locations across the state. Same method. Same pattern.”

  “He’s planning something,” Adith said darkly. “And worse… I believe he’s extracting information from

  the people he’s already taken. Which means—every victim gives him more names.”

  A stunned silence filled the room.

  “He kills only those who stand in his way,” Adith added. “No evidence. No forensics. Nothing but

  bodies.”

  Then, he turned to Brigadier Nair.

  “Anything to add, Brigadier?”

  Nair sat straighter, visibly shaken. “We lost a hundred soldiers. In one day. This isn’t a tactical failure.

  It’s a war. He’s playing with us.”

  “We need a strategy,” he added. “Not just more boots on the ground.”

  “How is he choosing the victims?” a young officer asked from across the table.

  Adith raised an eyebrow. “Did your Director not brief you?” he said with a half-smile. “CBI seems to

  be losing its edge.”

  “I brought him last-minute,” another official said. “He’s good at profiling.”

  “The targets,” Ahamed spoke up again, “are all connected to a case we closed five years ago. A dead

  girl. Young. Maybe eighteen. Her eyes were gouged out. Her face—mutilated. No ID. No missing

  person filed. No family. We closed it.”

  “And now?” Adith continued. “The victims are the people who buried that case. The doctor who signed

  the autopsy. The watchman who logged her in. The constables, the mortuary attendant, the minister

  who paid to suppress it. Even the ones who were just… there.”

  “And how is he connected to the girl?” the young officer asked.

  Ahamed swallowed. “He claimed… he was her husband.”

  The room froze.

  “Did anyone get a look at him?” the young officer added.

  “I did,” Ahamed said quietly. “But he wore a plague doctor mask. And when he spoke… I couldn’t

  move. I was paralyzed until he left.”

  Adith leaned forward, voice slow and deliberate.

  “With everything we’ve seen—his speed, his knowledge, the tech he uses—it’s either something beyond

  comprehension… or…”

  He let the word hang for just a second too long, before finishing with a thin smile.

  “...Or magic.”

  “In every story I’ve read, every movie I’ve watched… the knight is someone who holds onto their pride

  till the very end,” Chandana said sharply, her eyes fixed on the man seated quietly beside the tomb.

  “Yet here you are—guarding a prison filled with kidnapped people.”

  The man didn’t answer immediately. He simply smiled, tracing a hand across the smooth obsidian

  stone near him.

  “How good are these movies you speak of?” he asked, still not meeting her eyes. “My brother and sister

  used to talk about them too. I’d love to see one… someday.”

  “I asked you a question,” Chandana snapped, her voice rising.

  “Ah…” he said softly, finally lifting his head to look at her. “There she is. Madam Chandana—Knight of

  the Human Realm. It seems your spine has returned.”

  He patted the stone beside him.

  “Come. Sit. I’ll answer you.”

  Reluctantly, she lowered herself to the edge of the platform, keeping a wary distance.

  “You speak of pride,” he said, his gaze drifting back to the tomb. “But you don’t get to lecture me—not

  here. Not inside the palace my brother built for the woman he loved… and buried.”

  There was a long silence. Then, he continued, his tone growing quieter.

  “Do you know why he built her tomb here, Chandana? In the very palace he made for her happiness?

  Because your Knights… know nothing of pride.”

  Chandana looked at him, her anger slowly edged with something else—confusion, even guilt.

  “My elder brother—your ‘monster,’ your ‘attacker,’” he said with a trace of bitterness, “he was the only

  one from our family who ever stepped into your world. And the one person he loved the most—his

  wife, our sister-in-law—was from your world, too. So everything I know about your people, I know from

  her. And from him.”

  He turned toward Chandana now, his expression more serious.

  “She said you called yourselves police. Guardians. Defenders of justice. But my brother… he called you

  a Knight. Said you still held pride in battle.”

  Joshua’s gaze narrowed slightly. “But then again… he always saw light where others saw ruin.”

  Chandana said nothing. She stared at him, emotions clashing behind her eyes.

  “You speak of pride,” he repeated. “But my brother always said a true knight’s pride is not in how loud

  they shout… but in how deep they can bleed and still keep standing.”

  He glanced back at the tomb. “Big Sister—his wife—once told me a saying your people believe in: There

  is no fairness, no love, in war.”

  He looked back at Chandana.

  “So consider this… a war. And in war, a knight’s pride is not measured by how many people they

  protect—but by how many enemies they defeat. How much damage they can deal. By that metric,

  Madam Chandana…”

  He gave a faint, bitter smile.

  “My pride is still very much intact.”

  They move as a formation.

  Joshua endures.

  Where the Emperor commands,

  The Knight executes.

  It was about discipline.

  About the weight of legacy carried without complaint.

  the battlefield trembles.

  Black