It had been eight months since Rohraan took the boy. Eight long months since a mother’s body grew cold in the dust and a child was pried from her arms before he had the words to understand what death meant. Abhivart thrashed, cried, and screamed for his mama, who now lays lifeless in the pool of her own blood

Abhivart didn’t cry the way children are supposed to cry. His wailing wasn’t a tantrum or hunger—it was something deeper, like an echo trapped in his bones that never quite left. He’d scream till his throat gave out and he couldn’t breathe right, till his ribs hurt, and still he kept whispering her name.