Twenty-five years later...
The air in the secret basement was thick with the scent of aged parchment, dried herbs, and the faint, metallic tang of enchanted silver. Shelves carved into the stone walls groaned under the weight of mystic tomes, their spines etched with fading gold leaf. In the center of the room, a single oil lamp cast long, dancing shadows, its flame the only defiance against the profound stillness.
Vikram Shetty, his face looking older and more worn in the flickering light, slowly closed the heavy leather-bound book on the table before him. The cover, embossed with a faded trident, seemed to sigh in relief.
"...and so, with their final breaths, they vowed to meet again," Vikram concluded, his voice a low, gravelly whisper that seemed to hold the weight of the story itself. "The warlock king, Kaal, and the God-Gift, Jishwa. Their war was postponed for a generation."
His elder son, Varun, leaned forward, his young face a mask of intense focus. The light glinted off the silver amulet he wore—the mark of a Reeva hunter in training.
"And have they?" Varun asked, his voice barely containing his eagerness. "Have they been reborn, Father? Like the legends say?"
Vikram's gaze was distant, fixed on the dancing flame as if it held the answers. He slowly shook his head. "I am unsure, beta. The texts are clear about the vow, but the mechanics of the soul... that is a mystery even for us." He paused, and a shadow crossed his face, deeper than any in the room. "I cannot say for certain. But I can never forget that night, twenty-five years ago. The night of the Great Eclipse."
He leaned back, his eyes clouded with memory. "It wasn't just the unnatural dark. It was a... a feeling. A pressure in the air that made it hard to breathe. The storm that raged felt sentient, angry. And the darkness... it was not an absence of light. It was a presence. It felt as if the very essence of the Warlock King had stained the world, a final, defiant roar before his fall. For a moment, we all felt it—a terror that he had returned, more powerful than ever."
Varun listened, captivated. "But... there have been no signs of him since. No great rising of the Kaal Vansh."
"Not in the open," Vikram agreed, his expression grim. "But the shadows have been restless. And the Daayans... they have been active."
A cold dread seemed to enter the room with the mention of the witches. Varun's posture straightened. "The deaths in the outer districts. You think...?"
"I know," Vikram said, his voice hardening. "The pattern is too precise to be coincidence. They haven't been random killings. The Daayans have been hunting, with a specific, horrifying target." He met his son's eyes, the gravity of the situation clear in his own. "They have been tracking down and killing girls. Girls who were born exactly twenty-five years ago, on that same cursed night of the eclipse."
The implication hung in the air, cold and terrifying.
Varun's breath hitched. "They're trying to... to kill Jishwa? Before she can even awaken?"
"It is the only explanation that fits," Vikram nodded, his shoulders slumping slightly with the burden of this knowledge. "They are scouring the city, eliminating every potential vessel for Jishwa's soul. They fear her return more than anything."
A spark of hope mixed with fear lit in Varun's eyes. "Then... it means she is back? Jishwa truly has been reborn?"
Vikram spread his hands in a gesture of profound helplessness. "I am clueless, my son. The Daayans are acting on a suspicion, a fear. It could be a desperate purge, a gamble to ensure their king faces no opposition when the next eclipse comes. Or..." he trailed off, his gaze drifting towards the ceiling, towards the floors above where his family lived their normal, unaware lives. "Or they might know something we do not. They might be closer to finding her than we are."
He stood up, the legs of his chair scraping against the stone floor. The sound was final, like a verdict.
"The hunt is on, Varun. Not out in the open with armies, but in the shadows, with whispers and daggers. And we are blind. We must be ready. The Daayans would not be so bold unless they were acting on their king's command. The shadow of Kaal grows longer, and we must find the light before it is extinguished forever."
The air in the luxury hotel suite was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, sweat, and spent desire. The curtains were drawn against the Mumbai skyline, leaving the room bathed in the dim, golden glow of a single art deco lamp. Discarded clothes littered the plush carpet like fallen petals.
In the center of the enormous bed, amidst tangled silk sheets, lay Yuvaan Pratap Singh.
He was shirtless, a fine sheen of sweat glistening on his sculpted chest and torso. His skin seemed to almost drink the dim light, giving him an otherworldly aura. His face, with its sharp jawline and full lips, was one of impossible beauty—the kind that was almost unsettling in its perfection, capable of disarming both men and women. It was a beauty that held a dark, magnetic pull. Jet-black hair, long enough to brush his shoulders, was splayed across the pillow like a dark halo.
On his left ear and nostril, simple black studs stood out starkly against his skin, not as jewelry, but like marks of a different nature—tiny anchors for the shadows that seemed to cling to him.
He lay still, his chest rising and falling steadily, while around him, three girls sighed and murmured, their limbs still intertwined with his. They were beautiful, each of them, but they seemed to orbit him like pale moons around a dark, captivating star.
"I don't think I can move," one of them purred, tracing a lazy finger down his arm. "You've ruined me for any other man, Yuvaan."
Another giggled, nuzzling his shoulder. "Is this what they call black magic? Because I never want to leave this bed. Ever."
The third simply watched him with a dazed, worshipful look, her words a breathy sigh. "You're even more beautiful than all of us put together. It's not fair."
A slow, practiced smile touched Yuvaan's lips. It didn't quite reach his eyes, which remained dark, calculating pools, observing the scene with a detached, almost clinical satisfaction. This was his hunting ground. This was how he fed—not on their bodies, but on their adoration, their vulnerability, their life force. In these moments of peak submission and passion, he could draw in the faint, swirling energies of desire and devotion, a temporary balm for the vast, hollow darkness that lived within him.
He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture that made the girls sigh in unison.
"All beautiful things must come to an end, my dears," he said, his voice a low, hypnotic baritone that seemed to vibrate in the very air. "At least for now."
He extricated himself from their clinging limbs with a fluid, effortless motion that was both gentle and final. As he stood, the shadows in the room seemed to lean toward him, caressing his form. He pulled on his black shirt, the fabric seeming to absorb the light, and slipped a heavy, silver-ringed watch onto his wrist.
The pouting and pleading began, but he simply offered that same charming, empty smile. "I have… an appointment with my mother."
The mention of his mother was the only key that could truly unlock a different emotion in him. It was a key he used sparingly, and it always worked. The girls fell silent, their protests dying on their lips. They knew better than to come between Yuvaan Pratap Singh and the one person in the world he seemed to genuinely care for.
As he closed the door to the suite, the sound of their disappointed sighs was cut off. He stood alone in the hallway, the charming mask dissolving instantly from his face. In its place was a cold, focused intensity. The energy he had siphoned was a temporary fix, a flickering candle in the vast cavern of his true need.
He needed the Dark Stronghold. And to get it, he had a new target in mind. The daughter of Vikram Shetty. A girl named Kiara.
The game was just beginning.