𝙆𝙖𝙖𝙡𝙙𝙚𝙫𝙜𝙖𝙧𝙝

𝘈𝘶𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘳'𝘴 𝘗𝘖𝘝

In the golden blaze of the Rajasthan sun, far beneath the surface of Udaipur's grandest dungeon, a man screamed for mercy. The sound was swallowed whole by thick stone walls—walls that had seen too much blood and never forgot. Chains rattled. Blood dripped. And in the center of it all stood the man feared by kings and criminals alike.

KITANSH SINGH RATHORE

The tainted and cursed king of the underworld. His bare forearms were streaked with crimson, his shirt sleeves rolled back as if he were conducting a ritual—not a punishment. His ocean-blue eyes—calm, detached, dangerous—never once flinched as the traitor convulsed at his feet.

"You sold my brother's routes for pocket change?" Kitansh's voice was silk over steel. "You think loyalty is negotiable?"

The man on the ground whimpered, blood mixing with sweat and fear. Kitansh crouched, lifting the man's chin with the edge of a blade. He wasn't always like this. But grief reshapes kings into executioners.

"I don't forgive betrayal," he whispered.

A quiet chuckle echoed from behind him. Vihaan Singh Rathore stood nearby, arms folded, watching.

Younger by three years but no less lethal, Vihaan's loyalty was carved in bone.

"You're going soft, bhai sa. He still has a tongue," Vihaan said, smirking.

[Bhai sa = Respected elder brother]

Kitansh didn't smile. He drove the knife into the floor beside the traitor's ear. Close. Intentional.

Just then, his phone buzzed—an intrusion into the darkness. He checked the screen. Dadi sa.

[Dadi sa = Grandmother]

He stepped away, answering with a curt, "Ji, Dadi sa."

[Ji = Yes (formal/respectful)]

Her voice crackled through the speaker.

"We will leave for Jaipur in two days for Kriti's shraddh... it's time."

[Shraddh = Hindu ritual performed to pay homage to the deceased ancestors, especially on their death anniversary. It's believed to bring peace to the soul of the departed.]

Silence. Not a flinch. Not a breath.

"Fine," he replied.

One word. Cold. Final. He hung up. No questions. No grief. Just the quiet return to rage.

The knife was back in his hand.

"Where were we?" he asked, voice low. And the dungeon swallowed another scream.

--------

Miles away, in the sacred chaos of Banaras, the fluorescent light in the conference room buzzed just a little too loud, blending with the monotonous drone of her seniors discussing "the next big research initiative." KISHITA SHARMA stood near the corner bookshelf, pretending to be invested while secretly stifling a yawn.

Her eyelids were heavy, her ponytail lopsided, and her brain still half-dreaming of the Korean drama she'd binged until 4 AM. Netflix and chill, she'd said. Netflix, yes. Chill? Not when you have back-to-back meetings the next day. She snapped out of her sleepy trance only when someone said her name—sharply.

"Miss Kishita, are you even paying attention?"

Her spine straightened like a lightning bolt. "Absolutely, sir! I... was just making mental notes."

Her team lead gave her a long look, then exchanged glances with the others before saying, "Congratulations. You've been selected for a solo documentation project. It's prestigious, historical, and...well, sensitive."

Kishita blinked. "Sensitive?"

"You'll be documenting Kaaldevgarh Palace. It's reopening in two days for the shraddh rites of Kriti Rathore, the late daughter of the royal family. Perfect timing for your research.

" Exactly at that moment, one colleague whispered, "Kaaldevgarh? I thought it was cursed. Who even wants to go there?"

Kishita's breath caught.

The words Kaaldevgarh Palace echoed in her mind like a whisper from somewhere far older than memory. She didn't know why—but her body froze. A cold shiver climbed up her spine. Her hands felt clammy. She hadn't heard that name in years, and even then, only in hushed, fearful tones. The palace. Cursed. Haunted.Abandoned for two years since the mysterious death of the Rathore daughter.

When the boss says Kaaldevgarh, she hears a whisper behind her (but no one's there).

The projector screen glitches when her name is announced.

A mirror in the office briefly reflects her—but a woman in a blood-red lehenga stood where she sat. Eyes hollow. Watching. She blinked. Gone. But the image clung to her ribs like ice water.

"You okay?" her boss asked.

She nodded too quickly. She wasn't fine.

"Two days from now," her boss continued,

"The palace opens again for a royal funeral—the perfect chance to document the grounds."

Kishita nodded on autopilot, her mind somewhere far, far darker. "Yes. Totally fine. Palace. Shraddh. Jaipur. Great."

---

That evening, Kishita dragged herself through the front door, dropped her bag on the floor, and collapsed onto the hall couch.

Her eyes fluttered shut for a second before a familiar scent— oil and sandalwood—tickled her nose.

"Maa," she mumbled, as her mother's warm hands began massaging her scalp, like always after a long day.

"How was your office today?" her mother asked softly.

"Got a scholarship research assignment," Kishita muttered.

"For some haunted palace in Jaipur."

"What palace?" her mother asked casually.

"Kaaldevgarh."

The oil bottle slipped from her mother's hand.

Kishita opened her eyes.

Her mother had gone pale. Her hands were still, eyes fixed on the floor as though she had seen a ghost.

"You're not going. That place... it eats people's peace," she said quietly.

"What?"

"You're not going to that place."

Kishita sat up.

"But Maa—"

"No. It's not safe. That place is... not right." Her voice trembled.

And then she stood and left the room, leaving Kishita wide-eyed and speechless.

Something about her mother's fear only fueled her curiosity.

That night, as moonlight filtered into her bedroom, Kishita stood by her open suitcase, tossing in notebooks, traditional kurtas, and her favorite lucky pen.

"I'm going, Maa. I don't know what it is... but I feel like it's waiting for me," she whispered to the silent house.

"And I'm going to find out what happened in that palace."