Obavva stood at the highest turret of Chitradurga, the wind roaring against her shoulders like the scream of a rising storm. In her hand, the newly unearthed crescent blade—the Root, as they'd begun calling it—felt weightless, as if it had waited centuries to return to her bloodline.
Below, the veil of mist covered the eastern jungle path—the path that led to the forbidden ruins: the Temple of the Veilmakers.
"Time to unbury the architects of our silence," she murmured.
Nightfall.
The plan was razor-thin. They would leave in shadow, carrying nothing that rattled or reflected. Just the Root, Kaashi's sling of fire pebbles, Veda's coded scrolls, and Reva's unmatched sense of direction.
"The temple isn't on any known map," Veda had explained. "But the scrolls from the Vault—"
"They were never meant for kings," Kaashi interrupted. "They were for keepers. Protectors."
"Or assassins," Reva added darkly.
Obavva didn't correct her.
Hours later, deep within the jungle.
Branches clawed their faces. The air was heavy, sour with rot and memory. Somewhere in the distance, jackals cried out, then went eerily silent.
And then they saw it.
The Temple.
Built not with stone, but charred ivory. Shaped like a lotus, petals twisted and burnt. At its crown stood a single obsidian Eye—watching.
Or… remembering.
They passed through the broken archway, and the jungle seemed to die around them.
Vines refused to grow here.
Roots twisted away from the building.
Even the birds had vanished.
Inside, it was a mausoleum of whispers.
Symbols from every age—Chalukya, Hoysala, Nayaka, even foreign runes—adorned its pillars. Some etched in blood, others scorched as if by fire from within.
As they stepped further, the doors slammed shut behind them with thunder.
A voice rose from the dark.
"The bearer returns."
A figure emerged from the shadows.
Shrouded in silk robes that shimmered like oil. Her face was hidden behind a cracked obsidian mask. But the voice—it was young, ageless, and terrible.
"I am what remains," she said. "The last true Veilmaker. And you… carry the Root."
Obavva stepped forward, blade ready. "You turned the Eye against its purpose."
"No. I kept it safe from women like you. Ones who remembered too much. Who refused to kneel."
"We were never meant to kneel," Kaashi snapped.
"You were meant to listen," the Veilmaker hissed. "We once whispered truths into ears of queens, guided them away from blood. Then you started carving history with pestles."
Obavva's grip tightened. "We carved history because you erased it."
The Veilmaker raised her arms. Shadows bloomed behind her.
Not ghosts this time.
Not illusions.
But possessed husks—warriors of old, wrapped in bones, flesh petrified into armor. Eyes glowing with blue fire. Their movements were stiff, unnatural. Puppets.
"They were your sisters once," the Veilmaker said coldly. "Fallen Obavvari. Their will snapped by the Eye."
"You desecrated them."
"I preserved them."
Obavva didn't wait for another word.
She charged.
The first strike from the Root shattered a puppet in half, sparks of ancient soullight bursting like fireflies. Reva threw a flashstone, blinding two more. Veda unleashed coded prayers—scrolls burning mid-air, freezing one husk in a web of language.
Kaashi flung a fire-pebble directly at the Veilmaker. The explosion cracked her mask—but she didn't bleed. She only laughed.
"Fools! You think this is victory?" she roared. "This temple isn't my stronghold—it's my tomb. And tonight, you join me!"
The ground split open beneath them.
Obavva fell into blackness.
She landed on cold, polished obsidian. Alone.
All around her, voices swirled.
"Obavva of the Tunnel…"
"Breaker of Silence…"
"Bearer of the Root…"
Then—one voice stood out.
Her own.
"I am not chosen. I choose."
Light flared.
And from the dark, a thousand versions of her emerged—each from a different era. One with braided armor. One in saffron robes. One holding a pestle shaped like a crescent moon.
Together, they lifted their weapons.
And then disappeared.
Obavva stood alone—until her hands began to burn.
When she looked, the Root had melted into her palms.
Not a weapon anymore.
A mark.
A living script—spelling something in runes only she could feel.
A command.
She screamed—and was lifted back into the main hall by pure force of will.
The Veilmaker staggered.
"You merged it," she whispered. "You let it become you."
Obavva didn't reply.
She simply raised her hand—and the obsidian pillars shattered.
The puppets crumbled to dust.
The Eye above cracked.
And the Veilmaker, for the first time in centuries, trembled.
"You will remember us," Obavva said quietly. "Because this time, your silence ends with me."
She placed her hand on the temple floor.
The structure imploded into ash.
The next morning, when dawn broke over Chitradurga, a new symbol had been carved into the outer wall of the fort.
A crescent blade surrounded by a burning Eye—crossed with a line.
Meaning: Truth no longer blind.
And above it, in fresh red pigment, someone had written:
"The Veil Has Been Torn."
End of Chapter Twelve