The great wooden doors of the temple thudded shut behind them, echoing like a drum across the sleeping village.
Boom.
Dust drifted from the beams above.
Ansh slid the bar across the door with a grunt. "That should hold."
Ashwini hurried to stack a low bench against it. Vijay wedged a fallen pillar beside the frame for good measure. Sparks trailed from Daav's wings as the little fire-bird wheeled in nervous circles, scattering faint red embers that died before they touched the floor.
Ravi lay on a reed mat near the altar, chest rising and falling in uneasy sleep.
Ashwini whispered, "Do you think they saw us bring him here?"
"They saw," Vijay said, voice tight. "The whole crowd was there."
Ansh gripped the wooden staff he had found near the entry. "Let them come. We're not giving Ravi back."
Daav settled on his shoulder and gave a soft, defiant chirp.
A hush stretched across the night—until a dry rustle scraped against the temple wall.
BANG!
The doors shook.
"Open up!" a man shouted. "Return the boy!"
Another voice, older and hard, followed. "He belongs to the village. Do not meddle."
Ansh straightened, heart hammering. "He's not a thing you can own!" he called back.
Silence, then another crash. The bar shivered.
Vijay lifted a hand and the air before the doors shimmered faintly, thickening like glass. Ashwini pressed her palms to the stone floor; thin roots wriggled up between the cracks and coiled round the frame.
Again the villagers heaved against the doors. The hinges groaned but held.
From outside came angry cries—"Witchcraft! Sorcery!"—then the sound of feet retreating into the night.
The three children stayed crouched by the door long after the last echo faded. Daav perched high on a rafter, eyes glowing like two tiny coals.
Ravi stirred, his small voice trembling. "I heard them… they wanted me for the festival."
"You're safe," Ashwini murmured, tucking a blanket around him. "We won't let anyone hurt you."
Vijay glanced toward the inner chamber where Rajyugas had taken a room. The door remained closed, silent. "He knows what's happening," Vijay muttered. "Why isn't he coming?"
Ansh looked at the door as well. "Maybe he wants to see what we do. Or maybe he's asleep like a rock."
They dozed only when the first gray of dawn seeped through the shutters.
When they stepped outside, the morning air felt wrong—damp and heavy, carrying a faint sour smell. No hammering of festival poles. No chatter. Only the creak of empty shutters.
"Where is everyone?" Ashwini whispered.
A low moan drifted from a nearby hut. Another followed, thin and cracked.
Ansh pushed a door open. Inside, a woman lay on a straw mat, skin pale and lips darkened. Her breath rasped like dry leaves.
Ashwini clapped a hand over her mouth. "She's sick."
From farther off came a sudden wail, then another, rising like a mournful tide.
The three hurried into the square. Doors opened all around them. Men and women staggered out, faces waxen, eyes clouded. Some leaned on walls; others collapsed where they stood.
"It's spreading," Vijay breathed.
Daav fluttered uneasily from Ansh's shoulder to Ashwini's, tiny sparks guttering out before they reached the ground.
"Maybe that's why they wanted Ravi," Ansh said quietly, staring at the stricken villagers. "They thought the festival would stop this."
Ravi shrank behind him. "I don't know anything about that! I just—just help them, please!"
The villagers no longer shouted or threatened. Their eyes held only fear. Children whimpered in their mothers' arms; old men sank to their knees, trembling.
Ashwini's resolve hardened. "We can still help."
"But we can't heal a plague," Vijay said, frustration sharp in his voice.
"We can make them comfortable," Ashwini replied.
They set to work.
Ansh hauled bucket after bucket from the well, his small arms aching. Ashwini coaxed a few stubborn green shoots from the dry soil and crushed them into cooling poultices. Vijay summoned faint breezes to keep the suffocating rooms from stifling their patients.
Daav darted from house to house, his dim glow guiding them through the gloom. Sometimes he perched near a sick child, warmth steady and calm, until the fevered crying eased for a moment.
By late afternoon the cries had softened, though the sickness clung to the village like a shadow. The three children slumped on the temple steps, sweat-soaked and weary.
Ravi nestled against Ansh's side. "You saved me," he whispered.
Ansh ruffled the boy's hair. "We'll save the rest too," he said, though his voice carried a flicker of doubt.
The streets lay quiet beneath the reddening sky. Smoke from cooking fires never rose. Birds kept away.
Behind the temple wall, the door to Rajyugas's chamber stayed closed. No light glimmered beneath it.
Ashwini glanced at it once, then looked back at the darkening village. "He still hasn't come out."
Ansh pulled Daav closer, the little bird's feathers warm against his cheek. "Then we keep watch ourselves."
And as night settled, the silent village waited—caught between sickness and hope—while three young guardians kept their vigil, not knowing whether the dawn would bring relief or deeper shadow.