The nights were no longer silent in Chitradurga.
Since the tunnel's sealing, strange dreams plagued Obavva's sleep — memories that were not hers, faces she had never seen, lives she had never lived.
But always, in the center of those visions, stood the same weapon: Shaktiraaksh — the pestle that was no mere household tool anymore, but a relic alive with a pulse of its own.
Tonight, she could not sleep. The pestle glowed faintly at the edge of the cot. As she reached for it, the moment her fingers touched its cracked surface, the world shuddered.
She wasn't in her chamber anymore.
The sky above was black, choked with ash. A burning fortress loomed behind her — not Chitradurga, but somewhere older, crowned with curved arches and temple spires.
In her hand, the pestle was whole, etched with fresh symbols, glowing violet.
A woman stood before her.
Tall. Unbowed. Draped in black warrior silk with eyes like storm clouds.
"You are not the first," the woman said.
"Who are you?" Obavva asked.
"I was called Kethaki. Defender of Vatapi, slayer of traitors, bearer of the pestle before you. And before me, there were others."
Obavva stared.
"This is a memory," Kethaki said. "Etched into the blade. Each time it cracks, it remembers its previous bearer."
The sky shook. A scream echoed through the vision — like the one from the Eye in the tunnel.
"They found me, too," Kethaki said. "The Veilmakers do not die. They recur. They are drawn to women of resistance. Because we hold what they cannot: the ability to choose truth over submission."
She stepped forward, pressing the pestle to Obavva's chest. "There is a vault beneath the Well of Curses, under the second outer wall. The blade will guide you. But beware… what is kept there was never meant to be seen."
Obavva awoke gasping.
The pestle lay beside her — a second crack had formed.
She wasted no time. By moonrise, she had summoned Kaashi, Reva, and Veda. They made their way to the ancient, half-forgotten well that sat beyond the fort's second rampart, veiled in moss and superstition.
Locals called it Shaap Kund — the Cursed Well.
"No one's drawn water here in decades," Veda whispered.
"Because they feared drowning in truths," Obavva replied. "We're about to test if those fears were earned."
They descended slowly, using old vines and steps carved into the well wall.
Midway down, Reva stopped. "There's something carved here."
They scraped away the moss. Symbols — almost identical to those on the pestle — gleamed faintly under torchlight.
The pestle began to hum.
Obavva pressed it to the stone.
Click.
A slab shifted. Cold air surged out from a secret passage carved into the well's wall.
"Vault," Obavva whispered. "Exactly where she said it would be."
Inside the hidden vault, they found something impossible.
Scrolls. Dozens of them. Maps. Weapons. Portraits — each of a woman wielding a pestle, in styles spanning centuries and kingdoms. Some wore veils. Some wore crowns. One bore a Mughal robe soaked in blood.
And in the center of the room — a sarcophagus.
Engraved: The First Obavva.
"Impossible," Kaashi whispered. "There's no record of her before you."
"Because they erased her," Veda said softly. "As they always do."
Obavva approached the tomb. As she touched it, the lid slid open on its own.
But there was no body inside.
Only a blade.
Not a pestle.
A sword.
Short, thick, shaped like an inverted crescent, but etched with the same runes as Shaktiraaksh.
"It's… the root," Reva gasped. "The pestles — they were all forged from this."
Obavva lifted it.
It fit her grip perfectly.
And then the room began to quake.
From the scroll shelves, black ash poured — then shaped themselves into figures.
Ghosts.
But not of the Obavvari.
Of Veilmakers.
"You should not have found this," one hissed.
Obavva raised the root-blade. "You should not have buried her."
They attacked.
But this time, Obavva didn't swing like a hammer — she sliced.
The blade sang. Blue sparks flared with every cut. And as she moved, the ghosts screamed — not from pain, but memory. Her strikes unlocked their pasts, their origins — corrupt priests, fallen seers, betrayers of women who had once protected the Eye themselves.
"Even the Eye," Obavva whispered, "was meant to watch, not rule."
When it was over, the chamber returned to stillness.
Obavva stood, breath ragged, blade pulsing in her hand.
Behind her, Kaashi whispered, "This changes everything."
"Yes," Obavva said. "The pestle is not just a weapon. It is a message passed from one fearless hand to the next. A promise."
"To never kneel?" Veda asked.
"To never forget," Obavva corrected. "And now it's time the world remembers."
End of Chapter Eleven