The rain came down in sheets that night, pounding the thatched roof like angry fists. Kunal sat inside the hut, the small scrap of paper clutched in his hand, the words "Pull, boy. Or watch it tear you first" staring back at him in the dim lantern light. The ink had not smeared yet, but the thorn that pinned it to the door lay on the floor, wet and sharp. Outside, thunder rolled through the village, and for the first time in years, Nougrihi drank deeply. Water rushed in the ditches, filling cracks in the earth that had begged for it. But Kunal felt no relief. The rain washed away dirt, but not secrets.
Siya had slipped in through the back earlier, her sari soaked, her eyes wide with the same mix of fear and fire he felt. She sat close now, drying her hair with a rag, glancing at the note every few seconds. "It's from him," she said softly. "The Shadow Walker. The potter was right."
Kunal folded the paper carefully and tucked it into his box with the feathers. The collection had grown—five now, each one a silent question. "Why me? What thread am I supposed to pull? And what happens if I don't?"
Siya leaned in, her voice a whisper over the storm. "The elders. Their power. The way they choose who lives and who... gives. Last night in the grove, that boy was from the weavers. Lowest caste. Easy to take. If someone stops it, the whole thing falls apart. No more control."
Kunal nodded, his mind turning the words over like stones in a river. He had always known the rituals were wrong—deep down, in the pit of his stomach. But hearing it said aloud made it real. Dangerous. His father stirred in the corner, snoring lightly, unaware of the storm inside his son. Siryu worked the fields from dawn to dusk, believing the elders' words because what else was there? Questioning meant standing alone. And alone meant vulnerable.
The rain slowed to a steady drum by morning. The village woke to mud and hope. Women sang as they filled pots at the well, the water clear and cold for the first time in months. Children splashed in puddles, laughing. But Kunal saw the cracks. At the banyan tree, the elders gathered again, their faces grim despite the wet earth. Word had spread about the failed ritual—the boy gone, no blood spilled. "A bad omen," the head elder declared, his voice carrying like a curse. "The earth rejects our gift. We must try again soon. And watch for traitors."
Kunal lingered nearby, pretending to chase a stray dog. He caught snippets of talk. The potter was mentioned—his limp making him "unfit" for questions. Amma's name came up too, her sharp tongue too often defending the lower huts. And then, quieter, his own. "The thinker's boy. Siryu's son. Eyes like knives. He asks too much."
A chill ran through him, colder than the rain. They knew he watched. Or suspected. He found Siya by the river, skipping stones with more force than usual. "We have to go to the ruins," he said, keeping his voice low. "Mahishnati. That's where the Walker comes from. If he's testing me, maybe he'll show himself there."
Siya's stone skipped three times before sinking. "It's forbidden. The elders say ghosts guard the old stones. Bad luck to go alone."
Kunal met her gaze. "Ghosts don't leave feathers. People do. And if we don't find answers, the next offering might be someone we know."
They waited until afternoon, when the sun baked the mud dry and most villagers napped in the heat. Slipping away was easy—Kunal with a sack of "tools" (a stick for poking, a rag for cleaning), Siya with a basket of berries as cover. The path to Mahishnati wound through thick forest, overgrown with vines that clawed at their clothes. Birds called warnings from the branches, but Kunal pushed on, his heart a steady thump.
The ruins appeared like broken teeth against the sky—crumbling walls of red stone, carved with faces long faded. Vines choked the arches, and the air smelled of moss and forgotten time. They stepped into the main courtyard, where a massive statue of some ancient king stood half-buried in earth. Kunal felt small here, but not afraid. This place held stories, not curses.
"Look," Siya said, pointing to the ground. Fresh footprints circled the statue—large, deliberate. Nearby, scratched into the stone base, were three lines: a circle, a line through it, and a feather shape. Kunal traced them with his finger. "It's a sign. Like the note."
A rustle came from behind the statue. They froze. Out stepped a figure—tall, cloaked in dark cloth that blended with the shadows. The hood fell back, revealing a man in his thirties, face weathered but eyes bright, like Kunal's own. A scar ran from his temple to jaw, old and white. He held no weapon, but his stance said he needed none.
"You came," the man said, voice low and rough, like stones grinding. "I wondered if the boy with the questions would."
Kunal stepped forward, Siya close behind. "You're the Shadow Walker."
The man smiled faintly. "Names are chains. Call me what you like. But you... you're Siryu's son. Kunal. The one who sees."
Siya gripped Kunal's arm. "You saved the boy last night. Why?"
The man glanced at the scratches on the stone. "Because the earth doesn't ask for blood. Men do. The elders twist the old rites to keep power. Castes stay divided. Lower ones give everything—lives, labor, silence. I was born in those huts. I saw too much. Now I make sure the chosen ones run."
Kunal's mind whirled. "The feathers. The notes. They're from you."
A nod. "To wake you. Your eyes aren't like the others. You question. The village needs that. Pull the thread, Kunal. Expose the lies. Show how the 'offerings' never bring rain—how the elders hoard the good land, blame the poor when crops fail. But be careful. They know someone's interfering. And they'll strike first."
Thunder rumbled far off, a promise of more rain. The man turned to leave, but paused. "One more thing. The next gathering is in three nights. At the full moon. They'll choose two this time—a boy and a girl. From families who 'doubt.' Watch your back."
He melted into the ruins like smoke. Kunal and Siya stood frozen, the weight of his words settling like stones. As they hurried home, Kunal felt the noose tightening. The village he loved was a web of lies. And now, he was caught in it. But the biggest mystery gnawed at him—who among the elders knew the Shadow Walker's face? And why had one feather, years ago, been left at his birth?
Back in the hut, as rain pattered again, Kunal opened his box. The feathers lay there, silent witnesses. He traced the oldest one. It felt warm, almost. Or was that just his imagination? Outside, a shadow passed the window—too quick to see. But Kunal knew. The game had just begun. And losing meant everything.