Dusk had already begun its slow bleed into night when Mihir found himself standing before the banyan. Its roots clawed at the earth like gnarled fingers, thick and blackened, some half-buried, some rising to the level of his waist. The wind carried a damp, decaying scent, mingled with the faint tang of ash, and Mihir shivered even though the air was warm.
Arjun was beside him, silent as always. Not walking, not leading—just present. His presence made the shadows around Mihir feel smaller, sharper, as though they were not meant to touch him.
The villagers had been strangely absent that evening. No faint lanterns swaying, no distant cries. Mihir realized with a shiver that it was as though the world had been held back, waiting.
Then he heard it.
A slow, guttural exhalation, deep and resonant. It came from the banyan itself. The ground trembled faintly underfoot. Mihir's stomach tightened as he took a cautious step forward. The roots twisted subtly, brushing against one another as if inhaling air they hadn't seen in decades.
"Do you feel that?" Mihir whispered.
Arjun's gaze remained fixed on the tree. "It's aware of you now," he said softly. "The seal responds to blood and name. You are both."
The hair on Mihir's arms rose. A low hiss came from the roots, almost like a whisper, curling upward, wrapping around him. Then he heard it clearly—his own name, drawn out, guttural, carried in the wind through the branches.
Mihir…
His knees went weak. The sound was familiar yet utterly alien. His heartbeat raced so fast he thought the banyan itself could feel it. Ash fell from nowhere, dusting his arms and shoulders, warm and metallic against his skin.
Arjun stepped closer, hand hovering over Mihir's shoulder. Not touching yet, just enough that Mihir could feel the tension of proximity, the unspoken weight of control.
"You cannot let it claim you by fear," Arjun murmured. His voice was a thread against the roar of the banyan's exhalation. "Not now. Not yet."
Mihir turned to him. "I don't… I don't understand. How can a tree—" He stopped, gasping. The ground shifted beneath him. The roots moved like living things, curling around small stones and sticks, almost deliberately. "It knows me. It… it breathes my name."
"Yes," Arjun said. His voice was calm, but his eyes were dark, sharp. "And it remembers every Roy it has claimed. Every heir who walked here thinking they were safe."
Mihir's pulse spiked. "And you…?"
"I am not it," Arjun replied, almost too gently. "But I am what holds it back. For you."
Mihir could feel the heat from Arjun's body now, a counterpoint to the chill running up his spine. The tension between them was palpable, unspoken yet unbearable. Every inch of space Arjun claimed near him felt like a lifeline and a cage simultaneously.
The banyan's branches shifted. The leaves rustled in a way that sounded almost like breathing. Mihir stepped closer to one of the massive roots, hesitating before touching the bark. It was rough and ancient, yet pulsing faintly beneath his fingers.
"Do you hear it?" he asked.
Arjun's hand brushed against Mihir's wrist this time, light, deliberate. "I hear it," he said. "It calls to you, yes. But it cannot take you while I am here."
The tree exhaled again. More forcefully this time. Mihir staggered slightly, gripping Arjun instinctively. His chest pressed against Arjun's, and for the briefest moment, everything—the heat, the breath, the terror—coiled together into a single, overwhelming sensation.
"It knows," Mihir whispered, voice tight, "everything my family did. It knows the blood."
Arjun's lips curved faintly, darkly. "And it knows what I will do for you. Even if it asks for more than you can give."
The banyan pulsed. Roots shifted again, slower now, deliberate, almost contemplative. Mihir shivered and stepped back, brushing against Arjun's chest. He couldn't tell if he wanted distance or to be anchored by that human warmth amidst the unnatural awareness of the tree.
"You cannot run," Arjun murmured, pressing his hand lightly to Mihir's hip now, grounding him. "Not from this. Not from me."
Mihir felt a sharp rush in his stomach, fear and something else—something like anticipation—coiling together. His voice trembled. "Then… what do I do?"
"Stay," Arjun said simply. "Stand with me. Listen. Learn. Survive."
The banyan exhaled one last time, softly, almost approvingly. Its leaves quivered in a rhythm that felt like recognition. Mihir's heart slowed marginally. He realized he was trembling—not just from fear, but because Arjun's hand was still there, still protective, still possessive.
He looked up at Arjun, and for the first time, he felt the full weight of the man's devotion, dangerous and unwavering.
The forest was quiet again. The tree waited. And Mihir understood that nothing beyond this courtyard mattered—not the village, not the priest, not the ojha. Here, beneath the roots and the leaves, the Roy blood was alive, and so was Arjun.
"And if it wants more?" Mihir asked softly, almost afraid to know the answer.
Arjun smiled faintly, darkly, leaning just close enough that Mihir could feel his breath. "Then it will have to ask me first."
The banyan exhaled once more, a slow, steady rhythm that seemed to echo Mihir's own heartbeat. Somewhere in the roots, the world held its breath.
And Mihir realized with a shiver that the tree, the house, the forest, and Arjun himself were all waiting for him to choose.