The air smelled of iron and wet earth as Manmohini's words hung like a verdict over the Kothari courtyard.
Sharda's voice came first, raw with memory. "We only killed Kamini because she wanted to harm us. We had no choice."
Manmohini's smile thinned into something dangerously amused. "And what is Kamini's fault?" she said softly. "She was a mother who came for her son. Tell me—what would any mother not do for her child?"
Veena slammed a palm to her chest, eyes burning. "Kamini was not a mother. She was a witch. She tried to kill Vihaan—she fed on others, she lied and schemed. She was selfish."
Manmohini's expression curdled; the air rippled as if struck. A sudden invisible shove sent the family skidding backward across the marble. Dishes rattled on side-tables; a string of jasmine tore from a pillar.
"Shut up," Manmohini hissed. Her voice was silk and stone. "Do you know the difference between an ordinary woman and a witch? When an ordinary woman dies, people weep. When a witch dies—blood is shed." Her red eyes glittered. "I have come to shed your blood. I will start with the son who dared to turn against his mother."
Vihaan drew himself up until every line of him was defiance. "I said it once to your sister," he snapped. "I am not her son. I have two mothers: Veena and Sharda. Kamini is nothing to me."
Manmohini's smile widened until it was a blade. "That is precisely why you will die with them, Vihaan."
She rose without sound, the hem of her saree unfurling like a tide of night. Her hands moved — quick, ritual-sharp — and the air answered. From her palms burst a spray of crimson daggers, each one a slippery sliver of bloodlight, arcing toward the family.
Terror carved sharp lines across the Kotharis' faces. Some cried out; others ducked. Vihaan closed his eyes, bracing for the end.
Then, like a cool dawn, a wall of water rose between them and the blades.
The blood- daggers struck the barrier and shattered into harmless droplets. The courtyard filled with the scent of river-mud; the broken light of the daggers turned to harmless spray that steamed in the air.
Manmohini froze. Surprise flickered across her face — the first crack in her composure.
As the steam cleared, all eyes turned toward the corner of the courtyard.
There stood Gauri, her arm outstretched, magic shimmering through her hand, eyes glowing with divine strength.
Everyone stared in disbelief—Veena, Sharda, Yug, Dadi, even Vihaan—frozen as light radiated around her.
Manmohini's smirk slowly faded.
The storm stilled for a moment as the night bowed to Gauri's power.
Gauri walked forward as if the ground itself opened a path for her. The daayans at the edges of the courtyard backed away, their braided hair whipping like black banners; only Manmohini remained unmoved, a pale moon in the storm. Gauri stopped a breath away from her family and planted herself between the Kotharis and the witch—shield and sword all at once.
"Don't you know," Gauri said, her voice quiet but steady, "that to reach the husband you always have to get through the wife first?"
Vihaan's hand found hers, fingers curling with a silent grip of shared defiance. Around them, Sharda's shoulders squared, Veena's lips pressed to a prayer, Dadi's eyes shone with fierce relief.
Manmohini's mouth twitched into a smile that tasted of old cruelty. "Jalpanchi," she purred, savoring the word. "You call yourself the savior—how quaint. Times have changed, child. Wives who put their husbands before their own lives, who sing Savitri—how touching. But sentiment will not save you. You will meet a tragic end."
Gauri's laugh came then—soft, incredulous, full of steel. "That was the same arrogance your sister wore," she said. "Kamini thought herself untouchable. She fell by my hand."
The name hit Manmohini like a cold wind. For a heartbeat the witch's composure cracked; her eyes flashed murderous light. "Shut—" she began, voice a blade.
"You shut up." Gauri answered, and the two words were thunder.
Sound rose between them, not ordinary speech but something that vibrated the air itself. Manmohini's voice curved like a razor—ancient invocation, a sonorous howl that scraped at the edges of the courtyard. Gauri returned it with a voice that had the hush of rivers and the roar of monsoon thunder—an old hymn braided with new power.
Where the two voices met the world shook. Lantern flames guttered, the diyas' light bent; the peacocks painted on the mansion wall trembled and the sound of glass quivered. The witch's sonic lash struck like winter ice, sharp and cruel. Gauri's answer poured back like warm water, softening and swallowing the cold.
For a breathless moment they were two elemental forces: Manmohini—scarlet, slicing; Gauri—blue, steady. The clash was visible as a wind of sound, a ripple that ran along the soil and lifted the fallen petals into a frantic dance. The courtyard held its breath.
Then, as if the night itself chose a side, Gauri's voice grew firmer still. The sonic blade in her words dulled Manmohini's edge; the witch's cry fractured into scattered echoes and, with a cry that was half rage, half surprise, the blood-queen staggered back.
Around Manmohini, the lesser daayans faltered. Fear—raw, ancient—pulled at them. One by one they shuffled away until only Manmohini remained, eyes wild, the smile gone from her face.
Gauri stood unmoving, chest heaving, magic still humming beneath her skin. Vihaan's gaze found hers—pride and an ache so old it made her knees tremble—and the family leaned forward as one, drawn to the woman who had become their living wall.
Silence settled, heavy and waiting, while the last echoes died.
Manmohini's voice, when it came, was low and dangerous. "This is not over," she promised.
Gauri's reply was a whisper and an oath, threaded with the river's rage and the steadiness of steel. "No. It's only just begun."
The gathered family watched her—wide-eyed, grateful, afraid—but united. The wind eased. The night held its breath.
To be continued.