Mohana's hands glowed with dark fire as the Tri-Kaalishini's ruined remnants of magic shimmered and coalesced around her. From the shadows, the demonic formation rose once more, lines of glowing sigils carving themselves into the stone floor with terrifying precision.
She cradled Kiaan in her arms, his tiny body trembling, his golden eyes wide and luminous against the dark aura surrounding him. The child's soft cries pierced the night, a sound so fragile yet so piercing it made hearts shatter.
"Behold," Mohana's voice rang out, cold and cruel, reverberating through the courtyard, "the power that will grant me immortality, the sacrifice I have waited centuries to claim."
The tendrils still held the family tightly, constricting movement, forcing Kiara, Yuvaan, Vikram, Varun, Bhoomi, and Chandrika into helpless postures of desperation.
Bhoomi's voice cracked as she struggled against the dark bindings. "Mohana… please! Spare him! He is just a baby! He hasn't done anything to you!"
Chandrika's hands shook as she added, "This is madness! You cannot… you will not touch him!"
Mohana's lips curled into a merciless smirk. "You beg for a child's life… How touching. How… futile. I will not be swayed by your pleas. I have waited too long, suffered too much, and now—he will be mine to sacrifice."
Her eyes glimmered with the thrill of triumph. "And none of you… none of your 'family bonds' or bravery will stop me."
The courtyard fell into a tense, suffocating silence, punctuated only by Kiaan's tiny whimpers and the ominous hum of the forming ritual.
Kiara's chest heaved, her arms trembling despite being restrained. Yuvaan's grip tightened on the Reeva Talwar, teeth clenched, eyes burning with helpless fury. Every heartbeat echoed the dread and the desperate need to save their child.
The shadows of Mohana's magic stretched further, as if they themselves were alive, licking at the edges of the family's despair. The world seemed to narrow to this one horrifying moment—Kiaan's life, suspended between innocence and darkness.
And above it all, Mohana whispered, cruel and triumphant, "Tonight… the child will be sacrificed… and I will rise eternal."
Kiara's chest heaved as she struggled against the dark tendrils, her eyes never leaving Kiaan, who was still trembling in Mohana's arms. A cold, sinking fear gripped her heart, but in that instant, clarity struck her.
She realized—no one could save Kiaan. Not her, not Yuvaan, not even the strongest spells in the world. Only he could awaken the power within himself.
Her voice quivered but grew steady with resolve.
"Kiaan…" she whispered, her words soft and musical, "remember the stories… remember little Krishna, how he faced demons even as a baby… how he never gave up… how he always rose when danger came…"
She continued, her voice a gentle rhythm, weaving tales of courage and bravery, of battles fought with heart and cunning, of miracles born from innocence and determination.
For the first time, Kiaan's cries faltered. His small brows furrowed in concentration, the golden gleam of his eyes flickering like molten sunlight against the dark.
Mohana stiffened. She felt it first as a tremor, then a jolt—a shock reverberating through her, as if the child's tiny heartbeat had struck at the very core of her power.
Kiaan's lips parted, and a soft cooing sound emerged, melodic and bright. The golden light in his eyes flared. Mohana's hold on him faltered as a wave of pure energy burst outward, shimmering with celestial warmth, a counterforce against the black tendrils and twisted rituals.
The dark magic recoiled like a living thing, sizzling in the air, hissing at the touch of the child's newfound power. Mohana's eyes widened, her lips parting in disbelief.
The small, innocent figure of Kiaan lifted gently from her arms, hovering in the air. He giggled—a tiny, delighted sound—and the golden glow from his eyes spread outward, encasing him in a luminous aura.
Mohana staggered back, fists clenching, the pulse of her dark power weakening for the first time. Her breath came in sharp, shallow bursts as the realization struck: this child was not helpless. Not even close.
Kiaan's tiny hands reached outward instinctively, and the dark tendrils that had bound the family recoiled, snapping like threads under tension, before vanishing entirely.
He floated above the formation, his laughter bright and clear, eyes still golden, radiating a power that Mohana had never anticipated. The air around him vibrated with raw, innocent strength—a power older than centuries, yet newborn, just awakening.
Mohana's smirk faltered, her posture rigid with shock. She had underestimated the child—the hybrid of Jishwa and the Warlock line.
Kiaan giggled again, spinning lightly in the air, and Mohana felt a shiver of terror ripple through her.
The battlefield, the rituals, the shadows—they all seemed to pause, as if the world itself was holding its breath, watching a nine-month-old defy the impossible.