Nine years had passed. The Pratap Singh family now lived in a modern villa in Mumbai, a far cry from the sprawling, haunted halls of their Delhi mansion. Light filtered gently through the curtains, dust motes dancing in the golden morning rays, but the warmth could not fill the emptiness that had hollowed their hearts.
Bhoomi knelt before Kiara's garlanded photo, her hands trembling slightly as she lit a diya. The small flame flickered, reflecting in her eyes, carrying the weight of years of sorrow.
Susheela entered silently, standing beside her, both women holding an unspoken grief. Bhoomi's voice broke the quiet, soft yet weighted with memory:
"Kiara… she brought joy into our lives unlike anyone else. Her laughter, her courage, her selflessness… every sacrifice she made, every moment she gave… it was for us. And yet, her departure… it shattered everything. It broke this family in ways nothing else could."
Susheela nodded, tears tracing paths down her cheeks. "Even in her absence, her love is still here. But the world has moved on without her, and we… we never truly recovered. Moti baa… she couldn't bear the grief either. She left us years ago, broken by the loss of Kiara."
Bhoomi's hands trembled over the diya as she continued, voice heavy: "Vikram Ji… he couldn't forgive. He broke ties with Yuvaan, with all of us… calling him the murderer of his daughter, the one who took Kiara from him. And Yuvaan… he doesn't smile anymore. He buries himself in work, unable to live, unable to breathe, unable to be the man he once was. But perhaps the worst… the hardest… is Kiaan. The boy blames his father. He blames him for the only person he ever loved."
Her eyes flickered toward the window as if seeing her grandson in that moment. "Even the powers he inherited… they had to be restrained. The silver bracelet keeps him 'normal,' but nothing about him, nothing about his life, is normal. Not really. Not without Kiara."
---
Meanwhile, at school, Kiaan's day turned cruelly ordinary. He had grown into a quiet boy, thoughtful, but still bearing the shadows of a childhood without his mother. Today, two classmates, taller and older, decided to test him.
They pushed him against the wall, pressing him with mockery. "Hey, little ghost-boy," one sneered, "where's your mom? Oh, wait… you don't have one, do you?"
Kiaan's jaw tightened. His voice was calm, measured, but beneath it, the storm churned. "Leave me alone," he said, eyes steady.
The boys laughed, cruel and dismissive. "What's the matter? No mom to protect you? No one to cry for you?"
At that, the silver bracelet on Kiaan's wrist glowed faintly, straining to contain the energy building inside him. His body trembled with barely restrained power, the air around him rippling with tension.
In a heartbeat, he acted. His small hands shot out, gripping both boys by the neck, lifting them effortlessly off the ground. Their eyes went wide with terror. The hallway fell silent. Teachers and students alike froze, hearts pounding, as the boy they had mocked stood there, unyielding, glowing with a force that should not have belonged to someone so young.
Kiaan's golden eyes, a mirror of Kiara's strength and love, flared with a quiet fury. His voice, low and steady, cut through the tension:
"Don't… ever… speak of her again."
The boys struggled, their arrogance shattered, their bravado gone. And in that instant, the truth became clear: the boy was no ordinary child. He carried the legacy, the power, and the grief of his mother—and the storm within him was only beginning.
Kiaan's eyes burned—not with uncontrolled rage, but with a quiet, dangerous clarity far beyond his nine years.
The two boys gasped for air as he tightened his grip for just a second longer, enough to let fear settle in their bones.
The corridor was silent.
Dust motes floated in the slanted sunlight from the high windows. The ticking of the hallway clock felt unnervingly loud. Kiaan's hair brushed forward over his forehead, his small silhouette yet terrifying—like a shadow learning to stand tall.
Then—
He loosened his hold.
Both boys dropped to the ground with a thud, coughing, scrambling backward as though they had glimpsed a demon in human form.
Kiaan stepped forward slowly, each footstep echoing like a warning.
He crouched before them—not as a child, but as a commander, his expression calm in a way that made their skin crawl.
His voice was smooth, steady, almost too controlled for someone so young:
"This is the last time I am telling you…"
He tilted his head slightly, the way Yuvaan would when giving a final warning.
"…do not ever speak my mother's name with your tongue."
The silver bracelet on his wrist glowed faintly—struggling, trembling, like a wild animal forced into a cage.
Kiaan's tone darkened, deliberate:
"She is with me. In my heart. In my shadow."
He leaned closer, their frightened breaths shaking against his face.
"You start something… and you will be the ones who cry in the end."
Then the faintest smile—small, lopsided, inherited straight from Kiara.
Deadly sweet.
"So…"
He rose slowly, dusting off his uniform.
"…do not begin anything you cannot finish. Or I will end it… in Kiaan style."
The boys stared up at him, paralyzed.
Kiaan gave one final look over his shoulder.
His voice low but echoing:
"Remember the name."
He turned, walking away with the calm authority of someone who knew he didn't need to raise his voice to be feared.
"Kiaan Pratap Singh."
His shadow stretched behind him—small, yes—but tinged with the legacy of two worlds:
A warrior father born of darkness.
A mother forged from light.
And a destiny that refused to sleep.
At the end of the corridor, the bracelet's burn faded.
But the boys remained frozen, still feeling phantom fingers around their throats.
And Kiaan…
He walked on.
Alone.
Power contained.
But only just.
---
To Be Continued…