The drive up to Nahargarh Fort was a slow, winding climb that lifted them out of the city's sweltering embrace. With each hairpin turn, the cacophony of Jaipur's streets faded, replaced by the hum of the jeep's engine and the gentle whisper of the evening wind through the scrubby Aravalli hills. Below them, the city transformed into a breathtaking carpet of twinkling lights, a silent, sprawling galaxy of human life.
"It was built in 1734 by Maharaja Sawai Jai Singh," Riya said, breaking the silence. Her voice was steady, professional, sticking to the facts as if to ward off the encroaching legends. "It formed a defensive ring for the city, along with Amer Fort and Jaigarh Fort. The royal suites where we are headed, Madhavendra Bhawan, were added much later, in the 19th century."
Neel said nothing, his gaze fixed on the dark, formidable silhouette of the fort growing larger against the twilight sky. It loomed over the city like a silent, brooding guardian. He wasn't interested in the official history. He was interested in its shadows, its angles, its hidden spaces—the parts the tour guides never mentioned.
They passed through the main gate, where two nervous-looking constables saluted Riya's jeep with a haste that betrayed their unease. The air inside the fort walls was immediately cooler and deathly still. The vast stone courtyards, which bustled with tourists by day, were now empty, echoing expanses of stone and shadow. Their footsteps seemed unnaturally loud in the profound silence.
Riya led them with a practiced stride, her torch beam cutting a sharp path through the darkness. "The suite is in the east wing. Dr. Sharma had special permission from the Archaeological Survey to work here after hours. He was trying to date some of the original frescoes, or so his permit said."
They arrived at a heavy wooden door, splintered near the frame where the police had forced it open. It was now sealed with a wide band of yellow police tape. "This is it," Riya announced. "We found it bolted from the inside. We had to use a battering ram to get through."
Neel ducked under the tape and stepped inside, his movements fluid and silent. Riya and Maya followed, their apprehension a tangible presence in the small space.
The room was a paradox of faded grandeur and stark violence. The furniture was antique, covered in fine white dust sheets that made the pieces look like shrouded ghosts. The air was stale, thick with the scent of old paper, decaying plaster, and the faint, coppery tang of old blood. A chalk outline on the floor marked the spot where Dr. Alok Sharma's body had been found.
Maya let out a small, sharp gasp, her hand flying to her mouth. Riya placed a steadying hand on her arm, her professional demeanor softening for a moment. But Neel didn't look at the chalk outline. He didn't look at the center of the room at all. His attention was on the periphery.
His gaze swept across the room, slow and methodical. He noted the thickness of the dust on the windowsills, the patterns of cobwebs in the high corners of the ceiling, the way the air barely stirred. He walked over to the windows, which were covered by heavy iron bars set deep into the stone. He ran a finger along one of the bars; it came away thick with grime. Untouched for years.
Then, his eyes settled on the wall opposite the door. There, painted in what looked like a dark, rust-coloured pigment, was a strange, intricate symbol—a spiral intertwined with a series of sharp, angular lines.
"That's the 'ghost's' signature," Riya said, her voice laced with scorn. "The media is calling it an ancient curse symbol. Our historians are still trying to identify it."
Neel walked towards it, his footsteps silent on the stone floor. He stopped a few feet away, his head tilted slightly, observing it not as a symbol, but as a physical object. While Riya saw a message, Neel saw paint on a wall. He leaned closer, his eyes narrowing. The other officers, the forensic team, they had all stood back, photographing it, analyzing its meaning. They had treated it like a sacred relic of the crime.
Neel did not.
He reached out and, to Riya's astonishment, gently touched the edge of the symbol with his index finger. He rubbed the pigment between his thumb and finger, then brought it to his nose, inhaling faintly. He was not looking at the symbol's design, but at its texture, its composition.
"The paint," he said, his voice a low murmur, almost to himself. "It's wrong."
Riya frowned. "Wrong? What do you mean? It looks like ochre, like old blood."
"It looks like it," Neel corrected her softly, turning to face her. His dark eyes held a new light, the spark of a hunter who has just found the first print in the snow. "But it's not. The base is an acrylic polymer, mixed with iron oxide dust to give it an aged look. The binder is modern. You can smell the faint chemical scent beneath the dust."
He looked around the room, at the thick, settled layers of history, and then back at the freshly painted symbol.
"This symbol isn't ancient," he declared, his quiet voice cutting through the room's supernatural dread like a scalpel. "It was painted here. Less than forty-eight hours ago."