Another two years dragged by in Nougrihi, heavy with dust and unanswered prayers. Kunal was nine now, his frame still lean but his mind sharper than ever, like a knife honed on quiet thoughts. He spent more time alone these days, wandering the edges of the village where the fields met the forest. The other boys teased him for it—called him the "thinker" or the "ghost-watcher"—but Kunal didn't mind. He liked the space to piece things together, like a puzzle no one else saw.
The black feathers kept coming. Every few months, one would appear near his hut or by the river path where he played. Always fresh, always alone. Kunal collected them in a small wooden box under his mat, along with that stained cloth from the grove. He studied them in secret, running his fingers over the smooth barbs, wondering who left them and why. Siya knew about the box. She helped him hide it once when Siryu came too close to discovering it. "It's a warning," she had said, her small face serious. "Or a game. But games like this don't end well."
The village grew more restless. Rain had become a stranger, turning the once-green fields into cracked earth. Families from the lower castes suffered first—no one shared water freely, and the elders blamed "bad blood" for the curse. Arguments broke out at the banyan tree meetings. One evening, as the sun dipped low and painted the sky blood-red, the head elder announced a gathering at the grove. "The earth calls," he said, his voice flat. "We answer, or we all starve."
Kunal overheard his father talking to Amma that night. Siryu's voice was low, strained. "Not again. The last one... the boy from the potter's family. He was only sixteen. What if they choose wrong this time?"
Amma's reply was sharp as a thorn. "Wrong? There's no wrong in giving. The earth takes the weak to spare the strong. You know the rules, Siryu. Question them, and the black magic turns on you."
Kunal lay still in the dark, his heart pounding. He had heard stories of the grove rituals—whispers of screams cut short, of blood soaking the soil to "feed the roots." But stories were just words. Now it felt real, close enough to touch. He waited until the hut fell silent, then slipped outside. The moon was half-full, casting long shadows that twisted like fingers. He headed for the grove, his bare feet silent on the path.
The air grew thicker as he neared the trees. Cicadas hummed, then fell quiet. Kunal hid behind a cluster of boulders, peering through the leaves. Torches flickered ahead, held by five figures in dark cloaks. The head elder stood in the center, his face painted with white ash. Beside him was a boy—no older than twelve—from the weaver's family, the lowest caste. The boy's eyes were wide, darting like a trapped animal's. He was tied loosely at the wrists, not struggling, but trembling.
Kunal's breath caught. This was no story. This was happening. The elder chanted words in an old tongue, words that sounded like wind through dry bones. The other cloaked figures nodded, their faces hidden. One stepped forward—a tall man with a limp, someone Kunal recognized as the potter from the edge of the village. He held a curved knife, its blade catching the torchlight.
But something was wrong. The boy whispered something to the elder. The elder paused. His head snapped up, eyes scanning the trees. Kunal froze, his body pressed against cold stone. Had he been seen? The elder shook his head, muttering, and the chant resumed. The knife rose. Kunal squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the scream.
It never came.
When he opened his eyes, the boy was gone. Untied, vanished into the night. The cloaked figures argued in hushed voices, panic creeping in. "He ran," one said. "The earth rejected him." The elder cursed, stamping the ground. They scattered, torches bobbing like fireflies in retreat.
Kunal stayed hidden until the grove emptied. His legs shook as he crept closer. The ground was unmarked—no blood, no struggle. But there, half-buried in the dirt where the boy had stood, lay another black feather. This one was different—torn at the tip, as if gripped too hard.
He picked it up, his fingers numb. Who had helped the boy escape? And why leave the feather here, for him to find? Footsteps crunched behind him. Kunal spun, heart slamming.
Siya stepped from the shadows, her face pale in the moonlight. "I followed you," she said. "I saw it all. The boy... he's safe. I swear."
Kunal stared at her. "How do you know?"
She glanced back toward the village, her voice a whisper. "Because I helped him run. And someone else was there. Watching us both."
The feather felt heavy in his hand. The grove seemed to close in, the trees whispering secrets they weren't ready to hear. Kunal knew one thing for sure—this was no game. Someone was pulling strings in the dark. And now, they knew he was watching too.