Life at the farmhouse had grown into a fragile rhythm. Mukul trained under his two masters, the six daughters played around him like orbiting stars, and Meera—though scarred by exile—found fleeting moments of peace watching her children's laughter echo through the halls.
But fate never allowed peace to linger for long.
It happened one rainy afternoon. Meera, carrying a basket of herbs for Ishita and Anaya, slipped on the slick stones of the courtyard. She fell hard, her head striking against the edge of the stone well. Blood trickled down her temple, and darkness consumed her before she could call for help.
Mukul's cries pierced the air. The six little girls rushed to his side, their own eyes wide with fear. Ishita and Anaya came running, lifting Meera's limp body with trembling hands.
For two days, the household was wrapped in silence. Meera lay in bed, unmoving, her breaths shallow. Mukul never left her side, clutching her hand with a determination too strong for a child. "Wake up, Maa," he whispered, over and over. "Please wake up."
And then—on the dawn of the third day—her eyes opened.
But the woman who looked at the ceiling was no longer just Meera Ahir.
Memories surged like a flood—faces, names, voices she had thought lost forever. A towering mansion in Europe. The Raichand crest engraved upon silver gates. The proud yet gentle smiles of her parents. The warmth of a family she thought she never had.
She gasped, clutching her head as tears streamed down her face. "I… I am not Meera. I am Avni Raichand… daughter of the Raichand and Malhotra families."
Ishita and Anaya exchanged a glance, their hands tightening in shared realization. The secret they had always suspected was now laid bare. Meera—Avni—was not an orphan. She was the lost jewel of an ancient and powerful bloodline, a woman whose disappearance had echoed across continents.
"Help me," Avni pleaded, her voice breaking. "I must find them… my family. They will not even know I am alive. They will not know about Mukul or my other children."
Ishita knelt beside her, placing a steadying hand on hers. "You are not alone, Avni. We will help you. Whatever it takes."
Anaya nodded firmly. "The world may think you lost, but we will restore your place in it. Your bloodline is too important to vanish into the shadows."
For the first time in years, hope lit Avni's eyes.
She thought of her father, her mother, her kin. She thought of the siblings Mukul had lost, scattered like seeds across the wind. She thought of the Ahir family, unaware of the cruelty Savita had inflicted.
And she thought of Mukul, sleeping peacefully beside her, his small hand still gripping hers.
No matter how dangerous his power, no matter how heavy his destiny, he was her son—and he deserved to know the truth of his heritage.
"Then we begin now," Avni whispered, her voice filled with new fire. "Help me send word. My family must know I live."
That night, under the stars, Ishita and Anaya began drafting secret letters, using the ancient channels known only to their hidden orders. Messages carried in invisible ink, encrypted with seals no enemy could break.
Far away, across oceans and continents, the Raichand and Malhotra families would soon receive whispers they had long prayed for—whispers that their lost daughter had returned.
The world had believed Avni Raichand dead.But destiny had only hidden her… until now.