The wind outside carried a strange charge, as if the earth itself had held its breath. Obavva stood at the edge of the well, her reflection fractured by ripples that hadn't come from wind or stone.
They came from within.
The Queen's words rang in her ears: "They're trying to awaken something."And what if… it was already half-awake?
That night, while the fort slept under a false veil of calm, Obavva returned to the well.
She had changed into her stealth gear—tightly woven cloth, charcoal-dyed to vanish into darkness. Her pestle was strapped across her back, and two curved daggers were sheathed at her sides. No torches this time. Only instinct.
She tied a thick hemp rope to the stone lip of the well and lowered herself in, feet first, every breath shallower than the last. Moonlight barely pierced the water's surface. Below, it was ink.
And then—just past the halfway descent—her boot touched something solid.
Not water.
Stone.
She crouched atop it, unhooked the small lantern from her belt, and ignited it with flint. A warm glow illuminated what should've been impossible.
A platform. Carved deep into the well's interior. Covered in glyphs that pulsed faintly when her skin got close—like they recognized her.
She turned slowly.
Behind her, the wall of the well gave way to a hidden arch.
A secret passage.
Inside, the air was heavy with ancient damp. Every inch of the tunnel wall was etched with symbols—not of gods or kings, but of creatures. Half-human. Half-serpent. With black, hollow eyes.
At the end of the corridor stood a stone door. Circular. Seamless.
She placed her palm on it.
It hissed.
And slid open.
The chamber beyond wasn't part of any fort record. It was cylindrical, with black stone veins running through its pillars like lightning frozen in rock. At the center stood a pool—still as death, but ringed with inscriptions.
Obavva stepped toward it—and suddenly, the water churned.
She leapt back, pestle drawn.
From the surface, a face emerged.
But it wasn't truly a face. It was a mask. Shimmering. Shifting. And watching.
Eyes made not of flesh, but of light.
The voice that followed wasn't spoken—it echoed inside her skull.
"Blood of the mountain. Descendant of stone. You have returned."
She shook her head, breath uneven. "What are you?"
"Not what. Who. I am the seal that guards the breach. And you… are the last of the Obavvari."
Her grip on the pestle loosened. "The what?"
"Before Chitradurga had walls, before kings ruled the Deccan, there was a tribe of women who stood between man and what lurked beneath. You are their flame reborn."
Obavva's mind reeled. The Obavvari? A forgotten bloodline? Could this be why her instincts had always led her to danger—to confrontation—like she'd been designed for it?
"But the others have returned too," the voice continued. "The ones who were cast below. The veilmakers. They seek to unseal what should never rise."
"The masked man…" she whispered.
"He wears the crescent of the Fifth Veil. A cult that guards the truth by drowning it. He believes the time has come to awaken the Old Eye."
Obavva knelt by the edge. "How do I stop them?"
The light-eyes stared at her.
"You already have the weapon."
She glanced at her pestle.
"Not the tool. The will. But there is more to be forged. In the Hall of Mirrors, beyond the southern catacombs, lies the blade of your foremothers—Shaktiraaksh. Only it can close the breach once the Veilmakers open it."
The pool shimmered again—and then went still.
Gone.
But not before the voice left her with a final warning:
"The throne has cracks, Obavva. Look not just below. Look beside. Someone close… wears the mask."
By the time she climbed back into the courtyard, dawn's first fire was brushing the sky. But she no longer saw her fort the same way. Every stone could hide a door. Every shadow could hold a masked spy.
She rushed to Queen Mallamma's chambers—but the guards outside were gone.
Her heart pounded.
Obavva burst into the chamber.
The Queen was standing by the window, staring down at the well.
"You've seen it," Mallamma said softly, without turning.
Obavva froze.
"…What did you say?"
"The pool. The face. The Old Eye." The Queen turned slowly, her eyes lined with exhaustion. "I've seen it, too. Twenty years ago. But I was too young. Too afraid. I sealed the passage and buried the map."
Obavva stepped forward. "Then why didn't you say anything?"
Mallamma's voice cracked. "Because I believed if I ignored it, it would sleep forever."
A silence fell between them. A fragile, painful silence.
Then the Queen whispered, "But the court is compromised. I don't know who. My chamberlain has grown distant. My cousin—Rudrappa—has taken sudden interest in tunnel reinforcements. Someone is already working with the Veilmakers."
Obavva nodded grimly. "Then we unmask them. Before they unseal the Eye."
That night, Obavva descended again—this time not alone.
She had chosen four warriors—each handpicked. Each loyal beyond question. Silent, cloaked in black, armed with bow and blade.
Their destination: the southern catacombs.
The place where the Shaktiraaksh, the blade of the Obavvari, awaited.
But the southern catacombs were not just bones and crypts.
They were bait.
For as the group moved into the gloom, torches flickering, a shape moved behind them.
Pale, silent, and grinning.
The hunt had already begun.
End of Chapter Seven