Chapter 1

• It was well past midnight. Somewhere deep in a dense forest, hidden away from the world, stood an old, crumbling fort. Its walls were blanketed in silence, broken only by the occasional flicker of torchlight casting eerie shadows. Inside, a small gathering of people was gathered, but this wasn’t a celebration. It wasn’t a normal wedding.
• No, this was something twisted, something chilling.
• A boy, no more than twelve, sat beside a tiny girl—barely six years old—dressed in an ornate bridal dress, her face hidden behind a thick, heavy veil. The boy’s skin was fair, not from this land, while the girl’s dark eyes and delicate features marked her as unmistakably Indian. The scene was made even more disturbing by the rituals—sacred Indian wedding customs being performed with cold precision, but twisted into something dark and unnatural.
• Standing tall behind the boy was a man in his late fifties, his sharp features, perfectly styled hair, and broad shoulders exuding a cold, dangerous power. His eyes gleamed with a cruel pride. Behind him stood his guards—silent, massive, their faces expressionless.
• On the bride’s side, a couple stood awkwardly—a man and woman in simple clothes, clearly from a modest background. Their faces were pale with fear. The man’s hands trembled slightly, while the woman gripped her dupatta so tightly her knuckles turned white.
• The ceremony concluded in tense silence. Suddenly, a man dressed entirely in black appeared, as if conjured from the shadows themselves. His voice was low and mocking, “The bride is ready for the sacrifice.”
• The groom’s father gave a slow, satisfied nod. So did the bride’s father, though his smile was forced, brittle. The bride’s mother, however, froze. Her heart hammered against her chest, her breath caught.
• For a moment, she just stood there, processing what she had just heard. Her husband—the man she had trusted—had sold their daughter’s life. For money. For power. For something so vile, she couldn’t even speak it aloud. But she didn’t let her fear show.
• Instead, she smiled softly. “Of course,” she said, her voice gentle and almost sweet. “But my little girl is probably hungry. She always feels hungry, you know. Before we start, let me feed her something. It will calm her.”
• The man in black frowned, about to protest, but the mafia boss waved his hand dismissively. “Let her. I want this ritual to be perfect for my son.”
• The mother nodded, her heart pounding in her ears. She took her daughter’s tiny hand in hers, whispering softly to her, and led her into a small nearby hut. The little girl looked up at her mother, her eyes full of trust, not understanding the danger around her.
• Inside the hut, the mother worked quickly. She whispered hurried instructions to the child, hiding her in a secret compartment under the floorboards. “Stay quiet, my love. No matter what you hear, don’t come out. Mama will come back for you. I promise.”
• Minutes passed. The guards outside grew impatient. One of them knocked on the door. When it opened, the woman stood there with a calm smile. “She’s almost done eating. Please, come inside if you wish.”
• The guard stepped in—and didn’t see the sharp kitchen knife until it was too late. With a swift, desperate motion, the mother slit his throat. He crumpled silently to the floor. Her hands trembled, but her resolve did not.
• When the guard failed to return, the mafia boss’s suspicion deepened. He signalled four more guards to investigate. They burst into the hut, but she was ready. She fought fiercely, driven by sheer maternal love and desperation. She managed to kill one more guard before the others overpowered her.
• Dragging her out, bruised but defiant, they threw her before the mafia boss. “Boss,” one of them said breathlessly, “the girl’s gone. And she killed two of our men.”
• For a moment, the mafia boss’s expression flickered with something like surprise. This simple, middle-class woman had outwitted and overpowered his men—men trained to kill. But admiration was fleeting. His voice was cold, calculating. “Tell me where the girl is. Tell me now, and you can leave with a lot of money. Unharmed.”
• The woman’s lips curled into a bitter smile. “Kill me if you must. But you’ll never find my little princess.”
• Her husband, panic rising in his voice, pleaded, “Isha, please! Tell them! If you don’t, they’ll kill us both!”
• She turned her head slowly to face him, her eyes brimming with hatred and sorrow. How could he? How could he betray their own child?
• In one swift, desperate move, she yanked a pistol from the belt of one of the stunned guards, shot her husband squarely in the chest, and, before anyone could react, turned the gun on herself.
• A gunshot echoed, then silence.
• Her body fell beside her husband’s, lifeless—but her eyes, just moments before, had blazed with a mother’s fierce love, defiance, and heartbreak.
• Alejandro woke up, his breath coming in long, uneven gasps, as if he had been running for his life in his sleep. His heart pounded so loudly he could almost hear it echoing in the room. That dream again. It haunted him like a curse he couldn’t escape, like a ghost that refused to let him rest.
• He wiped the sweat from his forehead, his hands trembling. The woman’s eyes—those eyes—were still vivid in his mind, burning into his soul. He could never forget them. Eyes that were filled with love and desperation. Eyes that had silently begged for mercy, not for herself, but for her little girl.
• Eighteen long years had passed since that dreadful night, yet to Alejandro, it felt like it had all happened yesterday. Time had moved on, but his heart was still chained to that memory. He could still feel the thick air of the forest, hear the rustling of leaves, see the flicker of torches against the crumbling fort walls. He could still hear the cold voice of the man in black announcing the sacrifice, the greedy nods of the men who were supposed to be fathers, and the quiet courage of the woman who had outsmarted them all.