Meanwhile, downstairs…
The living room lay in a strange in-between state—half decorated, half destroyed. Streamers drooped like tired sighs, flowers lay scattered, their fragrance still lingering as if refusing to give up hope.
Susheela stood near the sofa, wringing the edge of her dupatta between her fingers. Her eyes kept drifting toward the staircase.
"Do you think…" she began, then stopped. Her voice softened. "Do you think Khushi will be able to convince Kiaan?"
Bhoomi, who was slowly gathering a few fallen marigolds into her palms, paused. She looked up, her eyes tired but searching. "I don't know," she admitted quietly. "But something about that girl feels… gentle. As if she knows how to talk to broken hearts."
Aakash, who had been standing near the window with Vinod, turned around at the mention of the name. "Khushi?" he asked. "Who is she?"
Bhoomi straightened slightly, as if the very thought of Khushi steadied her. "Kiaan's new music teacher," she said. "A very loving girl. She speaks less—but when she does, it reaches where it's meant to."
Vinod nodded slowly, thoughtful. "That child needs someone like that," he murmured. "Someone who doesn't fear his silence or his anger."
Meera, seated a little apart, stiffened almost imperceptibly.
Her gaze moved across the room—at the broken decorations, the anxious faces, the way every conversation circled back to one small boy upstairs. Her lips pressed into a thin line.
Why? she wondered silently.
Why is everyone so desperate to celebrate this child's birthday?
Her eyes flickered with something unreadable—unease… and something darker beneath it.
Susheela glanced up the stairs again, whispering more to herself than anyone else, "Come on, Khushi… please reach him."
Above them, the house seemed to hold its breath.
Waiting.
Meanwhile, in the Fox Realm…
A veil of illusion settled over Varun as he pulled the fox-cloak around his shoulders. The fabric shimmered once—deep russet melting into shadow—then went still, reshaping his aura, dulling the hunter's edge until even magic would mistake him for one of them.
A servant.
He stepped into the grand hall.
The space was vast, carved from living stone and foxfire crystal, its ceiling arched high like the ribcage of some ancient beast. Lanterns floated midair, glowing in hues of violet and gold, casting restless shadows that slithered along the walls. Laughter echoed—soft, dangerous, indulgent. The kind that never meant joy.
Varun lowered his gaze, matching his steps to the slow, practiced pace of the other cloaked figures moving beside him. No one questioned him. No one looked twice.
That was the most dangerous part.
At the far end of the hall, a circle of fox witches stood chanting, preparing for the night's celebration—a dark revel whispered about across realms. Chalices of enchanted wine were lined up. Silk-draped tables waited to be filled. Power hummed in the air, thick and expectant.
A fox witch barked an order, and Varun was pushed into line with the other servants.
"Tonight," she sneered, "you serve. You do not speak. You do not look up."
Varun inclined his head obediently, fingers tightening briefly beneath the cloak.
Tonight, he thought.
So this is the night you chose, Dilruba.
His eyes flicked around the hall, searching for a familiar presence, a familiar pull—anything. Nine years. Nine years since the Great Eclipse War. Nine years since she had vanished without a trace, leaving only questions and a love that had refused to die.
Would she be here?
Or was this celebration just another cruel illusion of hope?
As the hall filled and the foxfire burned brighter, Varun's heart beat once, hard and steady.
If you are anywhere in this realm, he vowed silently, I will find you.
Even if the night itself tried to stop him.
---