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.
Manmohini's furious eyes glimmered crimson under the stormy sky, her laughter echoing through the courtyard like a crack in the night.
"So, you are proud of your divinity, aren't you, Jalpanchi?" she sneered, her voice cutting through the silence. "Then listen well, oh divine one… listen to the curse of a witch who has seen the birth and death of eras!"
She rose into the air, her feet hovering above the earth as her braids unraveled, hair scattering wildly like black rivers across the wind. The moonlight dimmed behind the torrent of her hair, plunging the courtyard into a blood-red hue.
"I, Pralay Daayan Manmohini," she declared, her voice booming like thunder, "lay a curse upon this house, upon the son you all are dying to protect… upon the husband you are willing to die for!"
Gauri's eyes widened; Vihaan instinctively stepped forward, but the air itself pushed him back.
"I curse Vihaan Kothari," Manmohini continued, her face twisting with dark ecstasy, "that he shall die before your very eyes… soon. His death will be the song of your despair, Jalpanchi! None in this universe shall be able to save him — not the gods, not your divinity, not even destiny itself!"
As the family gasped, Manmohini's eyes rolled white. Her mouth opened unnaturally wide, and she extended her long crimson tongue — the mark of her seal. It glowed red-hot, runes burning into the air as she hissed, "So shall it be!"
The curse sealed with a deafening boom, the winds roared, lightning crackled across the sky, and a wave of black smoke surged outward, shaking the very walls of the Kothari mansion.
Then, as swiftly as it began, the storm ceased. The daayans vanished into thin air — their laughter fading into whispers — and Manmohini dissolved into a streak of blood-red mist, her curse echoing like a ghost in the night.
The darkness that had consumed the sky faded, the moon shone once more, and silence fell heavy upon the courtyard.
Gauri stood frozen, her eyes wide, her breath trembling. Vihaan turned to her, reaching out, but she could only whisper in dread —
"The curse… has begun."
To be continued…