They say demigods don't grieve for broken wings.But he kneels for every fallen feather.
Because kindness, too, is a form of power.
~~~~~
KaanKuwar stands still in her yard, his senses wide open. He draws in a slow breath, trying to trace the unfamiliar frequency that lingers—something unnatural, something hiding.
He steps inside her house. Nothing. The disturbance isn't in these walls.
He turns back and walks out again, following the shift in energy. It pulls him toward the backyard like a whisper on the wind.
"Here," he says softly, voice low and alert. "Something is here. Search this yard. We may find it."
Shaamvi, her body heavy under the fivefold spell, nods. Her instincts feel smothered beneath the other energy frequency, but she still moves. She walks slowly, eyes scanning, soul listening.
Then—something. A ripple beneath her feet.
She steps back, kneels, and places her hand on the earth. "Hey," she calls out. "I feel something here."
KaanKuwar is beside her in seconds, crouching next to her.
"Look at the texture… the scent of the soil," Shaamvi whispers.
He presses his palm to the ground, breathes in the scent, and frowns. "We need to dig. Bring me something."
Shaamvi runs to fetch an axe. When she returns, he begins to dig without hesitation.
Soon, the soil gives way to plastic—layered polythene, wrapped again and again.
"Stay back," he tells her. She steps away, a chill crawling up her spine.
"I can sense… a dead body," she says quietly.
KaanKuwar unties the layers. Inside lies the dead body of an owl, limp and twisted, a knife beside it, smeared with remnants of ritual.
"What kind of curse is this?" Shaamvi breathes.
KaanKuwar doesn't answer immediately. His eyes soften. His breath slows. His throat tightens.
She watches him and notices a change in his gaze.
Tears shimmer in his eyes.
Is he crying… for the owl? She thinks.
"How could they do this?" he murmurs, almost to himself.
"What do you mean?" she asks.
He lifts the knife carefully. Two mantras are etched along the blade— One drains. The other traps.
"Do you recognise these?" he asks, showing her the blade.
She nods slowly. "Yes. One is for draining sacred energy, the other is for binding a soul."
"She was injured with this," he says.
"I don't understand…" Shaamvi whispers.
KaanKuwar runs his hand over the owl's body—its wings, its feathers, its broken neck. He closes his eyes.
"They've turned her soul into a parasite," he says quietly.
"What?" she gasps.
"This owl… she may be dead. But do you feel her soul here?"
Shaamvi closes her eyes, reaching out. "No. Maybe she's already ascended…"
"No," KaanKuwar interrupts. "Her soul is still inside her."
"But she's not breathing…"
"Owl are sacred beings, this one… maybe more than most," he says. "They drained her energy. Bound her with a spell and made it a parasitic entity. Now her soul is trapped—forced to feed on other sacred and spiritual energy to seek revival."
Shaamvi's eyes widen. "So they brought her here… to feed on the sacred energy of my house… to weaken it, to weaken me."
"Yes," he says. "And once your house is empty of all sacred energy, she would begin to feed on you. On your own energy. To leave you too weak to fight back. Whoever they are, they don't want to give you a single chance to heal."
Shaamvi sighs. "Then I must help this owl ascend. Release her from this trap."
"Yes," KaanKuwar nods. "The sooner the better. You can't imagine how much her soul must be suffering."
"I know how to help a soul ascend," she says, "but I've never undone a curse like this. I don't know how to free her. But I know someone who might," she says softly, and steps inside to make a call.
Meanwhile, KaanKuwar gathers soft leaves in a quiet corner of the yard. When Shaamvi returns, he suddenly asks, "Do you have a soft cloth?"
"Yes—wait," she says, and disappears again.
When she returns with it, he gently takes the cloth from her hands and spreads it on the ground, over the leaves. Then, with care only a divine being could hold, he lifts the owl's body and lays it gently down.
He kneels beside it, his one hand is over her chest.
"Hold on a little longer, friend," he whispers. "You'll be free soon."
Shaamvi watches him—quietly, deeply.
After a moment, she asks, "Why is your hand on her body?"
"So she can feed on my energy. Just a little. For comfort," he replies.
"Won't that harm you?"
"My energy won't be harmed by her. Let her be in peace until we free her from this spell."
Shaamvi studies him—his strength, his wisdom, his quiet compassion. He had left his own town to protect her. And now… he gives comfort to a suffering soul who is feeding on his own sacred energy.
And in that moment, she realises: strength isn't in spells or swords.
It is in the tenderness of a hand laid over broken wings.