The grove's shadows seemed to follow Kunal home that night, clinging to his clothes like damp mist. He and Siya walked in silence, the torn black feather burning a hole in his pocket. The air felt thicker now, charged with questions neither of them could voice. Siya's small hand gripped his arm tightly, her face pale under the moonlight. "Who was the other person?" Kunal finally asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "The one you said was watching."
Siya shook her head, her dark hair swaying. "I don't know. A shadow. Tall. Moved like they knew the grove better than anyone. They cut the boy's ropes and pointed him toward the river path. Then they vanished." She paused, glancing back over her shoulder as if expecting the trees to answer. "But the feather... it's different this time. Torn. Like it fought back."
Kunal nodded, his mind racing ahead. The feathers had started as warnings, or teases. Now they felt like pieces of a larger game—one where he was the unwitting player. They reached the edge of the village, where the huts huddled together like frightened animals. Lights flickered in a few windows, but most families slept, unaware of the night's secret. Kunal squeezed Siya's hand. "Go home. Tell no one. I'll figure this out."
Siya's eyes met his, fierce despite her age. "We're figuring it out. Together." She slipped away into the dark, leaving Kunal alone with the weight of what they had seen.
Sleep did not come easy. Kunal lay on his mat, staring at the roof beams until dawn crept in. When the first rooster crowed, he rose and slipped out before his father stirred. He headed straight for the potter's hut on the village edge—the man with the limp he had recognized in the grove. The potter was a quiet type, always working clay into pots by the river, his face scarred from some old fire. Lower caste, they said. Unlucky. But Kunal had seen him watching the elders' meetings with eyes that missed nothing.
The potter was already at work, his hands deep in wet clay. He looked up as Kunal approached, his expression unchanging. "Early for a boy to wander," he said, voice rough like gravel. "What brings you here?"
Kunal sat on a stool, careful not to touch anything. "I saw you last night. In the grove."
The potter's hands stilled. Clay dripped from his fingers. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he wiped his hands on a rag and leaned closer. "Saw me, did you? And what did you see, boy?"
Kunal pulled out the torn feather. "This. And a boy who ran free. You cut his ropes."
The potter's eyes flicked to the feather, then back to Kunal. He let out a low sigh, like wind through cracks in a wall. "The earth doesn't want that boy. Or any boy. The elders... they twist the old ways. Make them serve their power. Last night was supposed to be quiet. No blood. But someone else came. Someone who left that for you."
Kunal's pulse quickened. "Who?"
The potter glanced toward the trees, as if the forest had ears. "An old friend of the clan. Or enemy. Depends on who you ask. They call him the Shadow Walker. No one knows his real name. He slips in from the ruins of Mahishnati at night. Leaves signs. Feathers for the marked ones. He's been pulling at the threads for years—helping the ones the elders choose, spreading doubts. Last night, he saved the boy. And he saw you watching."
Kunal's mouth went dry. The Shadow Walker. He had heard whispers of such a figure— a ghost story for children, a threat for the disobedient. But now it felt real, like the feather in his hand. "Why me? Why the feathers?"
The potter leaned back, his scarred face thoughtful. "Because you see, boy. Your eyes... they question. The elders notice that. The Walker notices too. He's testing you. To see if you'll pull the thread yourself. Or if you'll run from it."
Kunal stood, the feather clutched tight. "What happens if I pull?"
The potter's smile was sad, almost pitying. "The whole cloth unravels. Castes mix. Rituals stop. Fear loses its hold. But the elders... they fight dirty. Black magic or not, they know how to make a boy disappear."
Kunal left the potter's hut with more questions than answers. The sun climbed higher, baking the ground, but a chill stayed with him. He found Siya by the river, skipping stones with forced care. She looked up as he approached. "What did he say?"
Kunal told her everything—the Shadow Walker, the testing, the unraveling cloth. Siya's face grew serious. "Then we have to find him. Before the elders do."
They spent the afternoon searching the village edges, looking for signs—a misplaced footprint, a scrap of dark cloth. Nothing turned up. But as the sun set, Kunal felt it again—that prickle of being watched. He turned sharply. A figure stood far off, near the path to Mahishnati's ruins. Tall. Cloaked. For a split second, their eyes met. Then the figure melted into the trees.
That night, as thunder rumbled in the distance—rain at last?—Kunal heard the scrape at his door again. He rose and opened it. No one. But pinned to the frame with a thorn was another feather. Whole. Black. And wrapped around its quill, a small piece of paper. Scratched in rough ink: *Pull, boy. Or watch it tear you first.*
Kunal's hands shook as he read it. The storm broke overhead, rain finally falling hard. But in the village, a different storm was building—one of secrets, watchers, and a boy who could no longer pretend not to see.