Prologue: The Poisoned Path
The moon hung low over the jagged peaks of the Himalayas, its pale light piercing the veil of clouds that swirled like restless spirits. Nestled in the shadows of the mountain, the Chhaya Institution—the Shadow Order’s fortress—stood like a monolith of ancient power, an unsettling marriage of mythological grandeur and cutting-edge technology. A faint hum of machinery vibrated beneath the stones, a heartbeat to the fortress’s sinister purpose.
Inside its labyrinthine walls, a young girl moved like a phantom, her breath steady despite the beads of sweat trickling down her temple. Barefoot and clad in black training robes, Vishakha balanced precariously on a thin beam suspended above a pit of roaring fire. The heat licked at her soles, and the crackling flames threatened to consume her if she faltered. But faltering was not an option—not here, not under the watchful gaze of Aryan Suryavanshi, the Order’s most feared mentor.
“Focus, Vishakha,” Aryan commanded, his voice sharp as the blade he held. His silhouette loomed like a shadow against the flickering firelight, his talwar catching the glow of the flames. “A warrior without balance is a warrior without purpose.”
Vishakha tightened her jaw, her small fists trembling at her sides. She wanted to scream. To curse him. But discipline was all she had.
On the other side of the beam, a younger girl with wide, determined eyes mimicked Vishakha’s movements. Amrita, her twin sister, was a mirror image of her—a few inches shorter, with a smile that could melt stone but a spirit forged in unrelenting fire. Amrita’s feet moved effortlessly across the beam, her posture a portrait of serenity.
“Faster!” Aryan barked.
Both girls increased their pace, their eyes locked on the finish line: a pair of daggers gleaming on a pedestal. Vishakha’s muscles burned as she inched closer, every step precise, every movement calculated. But just as her hand reached for the weapon, Amrita’s voice cut through the tense silence.
“You’re too slow, Vishakha.”
Before she could react, Amrita’s hand shot out, pushing her sister off balance. Time seemed to stretch as Vishakha plummeted into the pit. The flames roared around her, but at the last moment, she twisted her body, grabbing onto the edge of the beam with a desperate grip.
Aryan’s slow clap echoed through the chamber as Vishakha dangled above the inferno.
“Amrita claims the prize,” Aryan declared, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “But Vishakha survives. Interesting.”
Amrita twirled one of the daggers in her hand, her expression unreadable. “It’s not personal, sister. It’s survival.”
Vishakha pulled herself back onto the beam, her face flushed with anger and humiliation. But she said nothing. Aryan had taught them that silence was power, and emotion was weakness.
As they descended from the beam, Vishakha’s mind raced. The Chhaya Institution had stripped her of her childhood, her identity, and even her sense of morality. It had forged her into a weapon, honed to perfection under Aryan’s relentless tutelage. But something inside her—some flicker of humanity—refused to die.
Years later, that same humanity would betray her.
Vishakha crouched atop a high-rise in Jaipur, her black-and-gold suit blending seamlessly with the shadows. The faint hum of traffic below was a distant echo, drowned out by the rhythmic pounding of her heartbeat. She peered through her scope at her target: Manoj Shekhar, a corrupt industrialist who had siphoned millions into the Shadow Order’s coffers.
“Easy target,” she muttered, her voice barely audible over her comms. Her hands were steady, her breathing controlled. But as she prepared to pull the trigger, a flicker of doubt stopped her.
Shekhar’s trembling hands held a briefcase. His lips moved in frantic whispers, though Vishakha couldn’t hear the words.
He’s afraid, she thought. But was he afraid of her—or something worse?
Vishakha’s finger hovered over the trigger. Then, against every instinct drilled into her, she withdrew the rifle and melted into the shadows.
In her earpiece, a voice crackled to life.
“Shadow Dancer, report,” came the cold, clipped tone of Amrita.
Vishakha froze, her breath catching in her throat. The name felt like a shackle tightening around her neck.
“I lost visual,” she lied, her voice calm. “Aborting the mission.”
There was a pause, then the voice sharpened. “Liar.”
Before Vishakha could respond, the comms went dead. Her chest tightened as she realized the full weight of her defiance.
She hadn’t just disobeyed a command. She had betrayed the Order.
From the distant rooftop, she caught a glimpse of Amrita stepping into the light, her golden combat suit gleaming like a celestial blade. Her eyes locked onto Vishakha’s, and a cruel smile spread across her lips.
“You’ve made your choice, sister,” Amrita said aloud, her voice carrying across the void between them. “Now, run.”
And run she did.
The streets of Jaipur blurred around her as Vishakha disappeared into the night. The Order would come for her. Amrita would hunt her. And Aryan? He would not forgive.
But for the first time in her life, Vishakha felt free.
In the darkness of an abandoned safe house, she stared at the bloodstained daggers she had taken from the Chhaya Institution all those years ago. One blade had been hers. The other, Amrita’s.
With a deep breath, she whispered to herself, “Let the shadows come. I’ll be ready.”
The war for her soul—and for Bharat Varsha—had begun.
Chapter 1: A Mission Gone Wrong
The air in Jaipur was heavy with heat and the faint aroma of marigolds from nearby gardens. Against the backdrop of the city’s glittering palaces and bustling streets, the sprawling Rajputana Grand Hotel stood like a fortress of decadence, its marble façade illuminated by an ocean of golden light. Inside, the city’s elite mingled beneath crystal chandeliers, their laughter and clinking glasses masking the quiet currents of corruption that had drawn Vishakha to this place.
Perched on the edge of the rooftop terrace, Vishakha adjusted her mask—a thin strip of fabric that obscured her features but left her piercing eyes exposed. Her black-and-gold bodysuit clung to her like a second skin, the faint shimmer of nanotech woven into the fabric blending her into the shadows. She surveyed the scene below through a pair of compact binoculars, her gaze locking onto Manoj Shekhar, the industrialist she had been tracking for weeks.
Shekhar, a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a perpetually nervous demeanor, stood near the bar, nursing a glass of champagne. His tailored suit hung awkwardly on his shoulders, and the leather briefcase in his left hand never left his grasp. He was surrounded by two burly bodyguards in ill-fitting tuxedos, their eyes scanning the crowd for threats.
“Doesn’t look like much,” Vishakha muttered under her breath, lowering the binoculars.
Her earpiece crackled as a familiar voice came through. Dev, her contact and a former intelligence analyst, sounded irritated. “Shekhar doesn’t need to look like much. That briefcase of his holds the real power. Financial records, offshore accounts—all tied to the Shadow Order. We’ve been trying to crack his network for months.”
Vishakha smirked, the ghost of her past training surfacing in her tone. “You people and your data. I’m more interested in what he knows.”
“Fine. But keep it clean. You’re not here to make a scene,” Dev warned.
“Clean’s my specialty,” Vishakha replied, pulling her katars from their sheaths. The blades shimmered faintly in the moonlight before retracting into compact handles for stealthier movement. She secured them at her sides and rose to her feet, her movements fluid and deliberate.
The terrace offered her a clear view of the ballroom’s high windows. With a quick assessment of the distance and trajectory, she activated the Chhaya Cloak, her suit briefly flickering as it rendered her invisible to the naked eye. She leapt gracefully from the rooftop, landing silently on the stone ledge just outside the ballroom.
Inside, Shekhar laughed nervously at something one of his companions said, his gaze darting toward the entrance as if expecting trouble. Vishakha crouched low, her fingers brushing against the glass pane. She could almost feel his fear—it clung to him like a heavy coat. But whether it was fear of her or someone else, she couldn’t yet say.
“Target acquired,” she whispered into the comm. “Moving in.”
Dev’s response was curt. “You’ve got five minutes before I lose access to the security loop. Don’t waste time.”
“Copy that,” Vishakha said, disabling the comm link. She preferred silence when it came to work like this. Too many voices in her ear reminded her of the Chhaya Institution—and of Aryan.
Pushing the memory aside, she slid the window open with precision, slipping inside and blending seamlessly into the sea of silk saris and crisp suits. The rich and powerful swirled around her, their conversations laced with arrogance and thinly veiled malice. Vishakha moved among them like smoke, her presence unnoticed but ever-watchful.
Shekhar was her focus, but her senses scanned every detail—the position of security guards, the pattern of the cameras, the subtle but telltale signs of Shadow Order operatives who might have been embedded in the crowd.
As she approached the bar, a waiter stepped into her path, a tray of champagne flutes balanced on one hand. Without breaking stride, she plucked a glass from the tray and turned toward the industrialist.
“Mr. Shekhar,” she said, her voice low and smooth as she stepped into his line of sight.
He turned, startled. His eyes widened as they met hers, though he quickly masked his reaction. “Do I know you?” he asked, his voice betraying a faint tremor.
“Not yet,” Vishakha replied, raising her glass in a mock toast. “But you’re about to wish you didn’t.”
Before he could respond, she melted back into the crowd, her movements swift and deliberate. Shekhar’s confusion turned to unease as he glanced at his bodyguards, muttering something under his breath.
Vishakha allowed herself a small smile. Fear was an excellent motivator. She had seen it break even the most resolute of men. And tonight, it would be her ally.
She had no idea, however, that fear was working both ways. Somewhere in the ballroom, another pair of eyes had locked onto her—and they weren’t friendly.
Vishakha moved through the crowd with precision, her gaze locked on Manoj Shekhar. He clutched his briefcase tightly, his knuckles white against the leather handle. The industrialist’s nerves betrayed him—his laugh too loud, his gestures too abrupt. Vishakha had seen this behavior before. He wasn’t just paranoid. He knew someone was coming for him.
“Stay calm,” she whispered to herself, masking her presence in the flow of elegantly dressed guests. She slid past a group of diplomats engaged in heated discussion, their voices low but clipped with urgency. Beyond them, a woman in an emerald-green sari caught her eye—she moved a little too smoothly, her eyes scanning the room with practiced vigilance. A Shadow Order operative.
They’re everywhere tonight, Vishakha thought. The realization didn’t surprise her, but it tightened the window of time she had to extract her target.
At the far end of the ballroom, Shekhar exchanged quick words with his bodyguards. One of them nodded and stepped away, disappearing toward a hallway guarded by two uniformed security officers. Shekhar began edging toward the same direction. Vishakha adjusted her trajectory, keeping him in her peripheral vision while blending into a group of chatting guests.
Through her earpiece, Dev’s voice crackled to life again. “Heads up. I’m seeing movement near the south exit. Security team switching patrols earlier than expected.”
“Shadow Order?” Vishakha murmured under her breath, lifting a glass of champagne to her lips to maintain her cover.
“Probably. They don’t trust Shekhar any more than you do.”
Good, Vishakha thought grimly. That makes two of us.
She drained the glass and placed it on a passing waiter’s tray, her mind already mapping the fastest path to intercept Shekhar before he reached the hallway. His bodyguards were alert but sloppy, their focus limited to immediate threats rather than the subtler dangers lurking in the crowd.
She followed him as he moved, her steps silent, her figure melting into the opulent backdrop of flowing saris and tailored suits. She was close enough to catch snatches of his hurried conversation.
“It’s not safe here,” Shekhar muttered to one of his bodyguards. “We need to get this briefcase to—”
The rest of his sentence was drowned out by a burst of laughter from a nearby group. Vishakha clenched her fists. Whatever he was carrying, it was important enough for him to risk this event under heavy surveillance. She couldn’t let him slip away.
Activating the Chhaya Cloak, she disappeared from sight, the nanotech in her suit bending light around her form. The cloak wasn’t perfect—it left faint distortions in movement if someone looked closely—but in a crowded ballroom, it was all she needed.
She slipped past Shekhar’s trailing bodyguard, her movements fluid and deliberate. The hallway was just ahead now, the guards at its entrance barely glancing at Shekhar as he approached.
Too confident, she thought. They think they’re untouchable here.
She positioned herself near a marble column as Shekhar passed by. Her hand hovered near the retractable katars strapped to her thighs. A quick strike here, and she could take out his remaining bodyguard silently. But something stopped her.
The woman in the emerald sari—the operative she’d noticed earlier—was now on the move, her eyes darting toward Shekhar and the hallway. Vishakha tensed. Was she here to protect him—or silence him?
“Dev,” Vishakha whispered into the comm, her voice low and sharp. “I’ve got company. Shadow Order operative, heading for the target. Emerald sari. Can you confirm?”
A pause. Then Dev’s voice came back, tense. “Confirmed. She’s flagged as one of Aryan’s top field agents. Code name: Nayantara. Do not engage unless absolutely necessary.”
Vishakha bit back a curse. She recognized the name. Nayantara was a specialist—trained in close-quarters combat and interrogation. If she was here, Shekhar wasn’t just a courier. He was a liability.
She watched as Nayantara followed Shekhar into the hallway, her steps deliberate and unhurried. The security guards stationed at the entrance didn’t even blink.
“Change of plan,” Vishakha said quietly. “I’m following them.”
“Vishakha—”
She cut the comm link before Dev could argue.
With a final glance around the ballroom, she slipped into the hallway, careful to maintain the cover of her Chhaya Cloak. The narrow corridor was lined with ornate mirrors, their polished surfaces reflecting fragments of light from distant chandeliers. At the far end, Shekhar and his bodyguard disappeared into a side room. Nayantara followed a moment later.
Vishakha pressed herself against the wall, her breathing steady. She deactivated the cloak, conserving its limited energy reserves. Drawing a small, compact listening device from her belt, she placed it against the doorframe, tuning into the muffled voices inside.
“Shekhar,” a sharp, female voice said. Nayantara. “You’ve become careless. Do you realize how much trouble you’ve caused the Order?”
“I-I didn’t mean—” Shekhar stammered.
“You didn’t mean to leak classified financial records?” Nayantara interrupted coldly. “You didn’t mean to expose Aryan’s operations in Kolkata? Spare me your excuses.”
Vishakha’s pulse quickened. This wasn’t just about Shekhar’s corruption—he had information that could cripple the Shadow Order. And Nayantara wasn’t here to recover it.
She was here to clean up.
Vishakha slid her katars from their sheaths, the blades extending with a quiet, metallic hiss. She had seconds to act before Shekhar’s life ended—and with it, her chance to uncover the truth.
Vishakha gripped the katars tightly, their edges catching the faint glow of light filtering through the cracks in the door. She didn’t need to hear more to know how this scene would end if she didn’t act. Nayantara’s tone was clipped and clinical—a predator circling its prey—and Shekhar’s stammering told her he was already on borrowed time.
She pressed her ear against the door one last time, her breathing steady.
“You’ve jeopardized years of work, Shekhar,” Nayantara said, her voice dripping with disdain. “Do you think Aryan forgives failure? Do you think I do?”
A muffled thud followed, likely Nayantara slamming Shekhar against the wall. He let out a yelp, his pleas barely intelligible.
“I didn’t have a choice!” he sputtered. “They were closing in on me! I was—”
“Silence,” Nayantara hissed. “The only choice you have left is whether you die quickly or slowly.”
That was Vishakha’s cue.
She kicked the door open with a sharp burst of force, the hinges groaning under the impact. The dimly lit room fell into stunned silence as Vishakha stepped inside, her katars gleaming like fangs.
Nayantara turned slowly, her emerald sari flowing with her movements. Her eyes—sharp and unyielding—locked onto Vishakha’s with recognition and disdain. “Shadow Dancer,” she said, her voice devoid of surprise. “I was wondering when you’d show yourself.”
Vishakha tilted her head, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “You know me. I hate missing a party.”
Shekhar, slumped against the wall, blinked at her as if she were some phantom conjured by desperation. His lips moved, but no words came out.
Nayantara stepped between Vishakha and the industrialist, her posture relaxed but her intent clear. “You shouldn’t be here, Vishakha. This doesn’t concern you.”
Vishakha raised her katars, the blades humming faintly as they adjusted for combat. “Funny, I was about to say the same thing to you.”
Nayantara’s lips curled into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Still playing the hero, are we? You’re wasting your talent. Aryan could have made you unstoppable. Instead, you’re just… predictable.”
“Predictable enough to ruin your night,” Vishakha said, lunging forward.
The fight began in a blur of movement. Vishakha’s katars struck out in sharp, controlled arcs, aiming for the vulnerable gaps in Nayantara’s defenses. But Nayantara was fast—faster than most of Aryan’s agents—and she sidestepped with fluid precision, her counterstrike aimed at Vishakha’s midsection.
Vishakha twisted, narrowly avoiding the blade hidden beneath Nayantara’s flowing sari. The edge grazed her suit, sparks flying as it met the nanotech fabric.
“Impressive,” Nayantara said, circling her. “You’ve kept your edge. But let’s see how long that lasts.”
She darted forward, her strikes a flurry of calculated blows designed to overwhelm. Vishakha parried, her movements a blend of instinct and precision honed through years of brutal training. The sound of metal clashing filled the room, punctuated by Shekhar’s panicked gasps as he scrambled away from the melee.
“You’re protecting him?” Nayantara scoffed mid-strike. “Do you even know what he’s done?”
“I know enough,” Vishakha replied, countering with a sweeping kick that forced Nayantara to retreat. “And I know he’s worth more alive than dead.”
“Not to me,” Nayantara snapped, hurling a concealed blade at Shekhar.
Time seemed to slow as the blade spun through the air, its tip glinting with deadly precision. Vishakha reacted on instinct, throwing one of her katars to intercept it. The weapons collided midair, the deflected blade embedding itself harmlessly in the wall.
Shekhar whimpered, clutching his briefcase like a lifeline.
“Get out,” Vishakha barked at him, her eyes never leaving Nayantara.
He hesitated, his fear freezing him in place.
“Go!” she shouted, her voice cutting through his paralysis. He scrambled to his feet, stumbling toward the door.
But Nayantara wasn’t finished. With a flick of her wrist, she produced another blade and hurled it at his retreating figure.
Vishakha lunged, her body moving faster than thought. She tackled Shekhar to the ground, the blade whizzing past them and embedding itself in the doorframe.
“You’re determined,” Nayantara said, her tone calm despite the setback. “But determination won’t save you.”
Vishakha rose to her feet, her katars at the ready. “No,” she said, her voice steady. “But it’ll be enough to stop you.”
The fight resumed with renewed intensity. Vishakha pushed herself harder, her movements flowing like a shadow given form. Nayantara countered with sharp, deliberate strikes, her precision unnerving.
The room became a blur of motion—Vishakha’s katars slicing through the air, Nayantara’s blades glinting in the dim light. The walls bore the scars of their battle, the once-pristine space now marred with gouges and broken furniture.
Finally, Vishakha found her opening. A feint to the left drew Nayantara off-balance, and Vishakha struck with a spinning kick that sent her opponent crashing into a table. The wood splintered under Nayantara’s weight, and she groaned as she struggled to her feet.
Vishakha didn’t wait for her to recover. She grabbed Shekhar by the arm and dragged him toward the door.
“This isn’t over, Shadow Dancer!” Nayantara shouted after her, blood trickling from a cut on her temple.
Vishakha glanced back, her eyes cold. “It never is.”
With that, she disappeared into the hallway, Shekhar in tow.
The air in the corridor was stifling, heavy with the tension of escape. Vishakha’s grip on Manoj Shekhar’s arm was firm as she pulled him through the winding hallways of the Rajputana Grand Hotel, her senses on high alert for the inevitable arrival of more Shadow Order operatives.
“Let me go,” Shekhar wheezed, his briefcase clutched protectively against his chest. His breath came in short, panicked bursts, and his legs stumbled to keep up. “I-I don’t want any trouble.”
“Too late for that,” Vishakha shot back, her voice low and focused. She pushed him into a side passage, flattening herself against the wall as the sound of footsteps echoed nearby.
The shadows swallowed them, her suit blending seamlessly with the dimly lit surroundings. She motioned for Shekhar to stay quiet, her hand hovering near the retractable katars at her waist. Her breathing was steady, her mind racing.
They were deep into enemy territory now. Nayantara wouldn’t be the only operative present—Shadow Order protocol dictated redundancy, and Aryan’s network was nothing if not meticulous. The chances of getting Shekhar out alive were dwindling by the second.
“Why are you helping me?” Shekhar whispered, his voice trembling.
Vishakha didn’t answer immediately. She scanned the hallway ahead, her trained eyes searching for patterns in the shadows. Her instincts told her they had at most two minutes before another patrol crossed their path.
“Because you have something I need,” she said finally, her tone clipped. “That briefcase is the reason you’re not dead yet. Keep it close.”
Shekhar hesitated, his fingers tightening around the leather handle. “If they catch us—”
“They won’t,” Vishakha interrupted sharply. But even as she said it, the certainty in her voice wavered.
The truth was gnawing at the edges of her resolve. She had hesitated back in the ballroom—hesitated to kill Shekhar when the mission demanded it. The industrialist was little more than a cog in the Shadow Order’s machine, complicit in its corruption. Yet something about the fear in his eyes, the desperation in his voice, had stayed her hand.
It wasn’t the first time her humanity had interfered with her training, and it wouldn’t be the last.
She glanced down at her gloves, their black fabric stained with soot and dust from the earlier fight. Her hands had been weapons once—tools of the Shadow Order, honed for precision and destruction. Now, they trembled with doubt.
Focus, she told herself. There’s no time for this.
A faint crackle in her earpiece startled her. Dev’s voice came through, tight with urgency. “Vishakha, you’re running out of time. Hotel security’s starting to pick up on the disruption. You’ve got Shadow Order operatives closing in from the north wing.”
“Any clear exits?” she asked, keeping her voice low.
“There’s a service stairwell three corridors down, but you’re not going to like what’s waiting for you.”
“What is it?”
“Amrita,” Dev replied grimly.
Vishakha’s chest tightened. She glanced at Shekhar, who was watching her with a mixture of terror and confusion.
“Stay behind me,” she ordered, pulling her katars from their sheaths. The metallic hum of the blades extending was a cold comfort.
They moved quickly, their footsteps muffled against the marble floor. The corridor ahead was lined with mirrors, each one reflecting fragments of light from the ornate sconces on the walls. It was disorienting, a deliberate design to make navigation difficult—a hallmark of Shadow Order engineering.
As they approached the service stairwell, the air grew colder, the silence oppressive. Vishakha’s grip tightened on her weapons, her muscles coiled like a spring.
And then she saw her.
Amrita stood at the base of the stairs, her golden combat suit gleaming in the dim light. Her talwar rested casually against her shoulder, its polished blade catching the faint glow of the sconces.
“Sister,” Amrita said, her voice soft but cutting. “You’ve made quite the mess tonight.”
Vishakha stopped, her katars held at the ready. She positioned herself between Shekhar and Amrita, her gaze unwavering.
“I don’t have time for your games, Amrita,” she said, her voice low and steady. “Step aside.”
Amrita tilted her head, her expression almost amused. “Always so serious, Vishakha. That’s what made you such a good student. But tonight, you’re not leaving this place. Not with him.”
Her gaze flicked to Shekhar, who shrank back against the wall.
Vishakha’s pulse quickened. The doubts from earlier crept back into her mind, threatening to unbalance her. She couldn’t afford that—not now.
“Move, or I’ll make you,” Vishakha said, taking a step forward.
Amrita’s smile faded. She raised her talwar, its edge catching the light. “You’ve forgotten what it means to be one of us,” she said quietly. “But don’t worry. I’ll remind you.”
Vishakha’s hesitation disappeared, replaced by a cold, unyielding resolve. She tightened her grip on the katars, her stance shifting as she prepared for the inevitable clash.
“Stay behind me,” she murmured to Shekhar, her eyes locked on her sister.
Amrita lunged, her talwar slicing through the air with lethal precision. Vishakha met her attack head-on, their blades clashing in a burst of sparks that illuminated the corridor.
The past and the present collided in that moment, the echoes of their shared training reverberating through every strike and counterstrike. Vishakha’s movements were calculated and precise, but Amrita fought with a fury that bordered on unhinged.
As their weapons clashed again and again, Vishakha’s doubts resurfaced. Could she bring herself to fight her sister—really fight her? And if it came to it, could she finish the job?
Amrita’s blade came dangerously close to her shoulder, and she barely evaded the strike. She pushed her hesitation aside, focusing solely on survival.
But deep down, she knew the answer to her question.
If it came to it, she’d have no choice.
The air in the corridor crackled with tension as Vishakha and Amrita exchanged blows, their weapons slicing through the space between them like whispered threats. Each strike sent echoes reverberating off the mirrored walls, fragments of their battle splintering into countless reflections.
Amrita’s talwar swung in a deadly arc, narrowly missing Vishakha’s throat. The blade scraped against the marble wall behind her, leaving a jagged scar in its wake.
“You’ve slowed,” Amrita taunted, her golden combat suit glinting as she spun to block Vishakha’s retaliatory strike. “I remember when you could have ended this in a heartbeat. What happened, sister? Too much time spent running?”
Vishakha didn’t rise to the bait. Her katars danced in her hands, her strikes precise and deliberate as she forced Amrita to step back. “Still all talk, I see,” she shot back. “Does Aryan know how much time you waste trying to sound impressive?”
The corner of Amrita’s mouth twitched, but her focus didn’t waver. “Aryan trusts me to finish what you couldn’t. That’s what makes me his best.”
Their blades locked, the metal screeching as they pushed against each other. Vishakha stared into her sister’s eyes—eyes that once held warmth and mischief but now gleamed with cold certainty.
“You don’t see it, do you?” Vishakha said through gritted teeth. “You’re nothing but a tool to him.”
“And you’re nothing but a traitor,” Amrita snarled, breaking the lock with a sudden shove.
Before Vishakha could recover, Amrita shifted her stance, delivering a sweeping kick that caught Vishakha off guard. She stumbled back, her katars raised defensively.
But the fight was far from over.
A loud thud from the far end of the corridor drew both their attention. A squad of Shadow Order operatives emerged from the shadows, their movements precise and synchronized. Dressed in dark tactical gear, they fanned out quickly, weapons trained on Vishakha and Shekhar.
Amrita’s smile returned, sharper and colder than before. “Looks like your exit’s been cut off. Shall we call this a family reunion?”
Vishakha’s eyes flicked to Shekhar, who cowered against the wall, clutching his briefcase as if it could shield him. She clicked her katars back into their compact form and slid them into their sheaths.
“Stay low,” she ordered Shekhar, her voice calm despite the chaos building around her.
The operatives advanced in perfect unison, their weapons gleaming under the faint light. Vishakha calculated her odds in seconds: seven operatives, all heavily armed, with Amrita blocking the stairwell behind them.
No time for hesitation.
Vishakha grabbed the edge of a broken mirror from the wall, her fingers finding the sharp, jagged surface. With a sudden burst of movement, she hurled it at the nearest operative, the shard spinning through the air and embedding itself in his throat. He crumpled to the ground, his weapon clattering uselessly beside him.
The room erupted into chaos.
Gunfire erupted, the sharp cracks echoing down the corridor as Vishakha moved with the fluidity of shadows. She darted between the operatives, her Chhaya Cloak flickering briefly as it bent the light around her. Each step was calculated, each movement designed to evade their line of sight.
She disabled one operative with a sharp blow to his wrist, disarming him before landing a swift kick to his chest. Another came at her with a knife, but she caught his wrist mid-swing and twisted, the blade clattering to the ground as she struck him across the face with the hilt of her katar.
Amrita didn’t intervene—she stood back, watching the chaos unfold with an almost amused expression.
“Still trying to save everyone?” Amrita called out. “You can’t fight all of us, Vishakha. Why don’t you just give in? It’ll be easier for both of us.”
Vishakha ignored her, focusing on the operatives as they regrouped. She grabbed Shekhar by the collar and shoved him into an alcove. “Stay there and don’t move,” she hissed before turning her attention back to the fight.
The operatives moved in pairs now, their coordination improving as they adapted to her tactics. She dodged a volley of bullets, the rounds ricocheting off the walls, and retaliated by activating the compact chakram hidden in her belt. With a flick of her wrist, the weapon expanded into a razor-sharp disc, slicing through the legs of two advancing operatives.
The remaining three hesitated, their movements faltering as they realized how quickly their numbers had dwindled.
“Cowards,” Amrita said, stepping forward to join the fray. She raised her talwar, her posture radiating confidence. “Let me show you how it’s done.”
Vishakha’s breath hitched as Amrita charged. Her sister’s strikes were brutal and unrelenting, each one designed to force Vishakha into a defensive position. Vishakha countered with precision, her katars moving in tandem to block and redirect the blows.
The remaining operatives used the distraction to reposition themselves, one of them aiming his rifle directly at Shekhar.
Vishakha saw it out of the corner of her eye. She feinted left, dodging Amrita’s next strike, and hurled one of her katars toward the gunman. The blade found its mark, embedding itself in his shoulder and knocking him off balance.
Amrita seized the opening, landing a hard kick to Vishakha’s abdomen. She stumbled back, the air rushing from her lungs as she collided with the wall.
“You’re slipping, sister,” Amrita said, her voice cold. “This isn’t the Vishakha I trained with.”
Vishakha forced herself to stand, her grip tightening on her remaining katar. “And this isn’t the Amrita I grew up with,” she replied, her voice steady despite the pain.
The corridor fell silent for a moment, the tension thick enough to cut with a blade. Amrita’s gaze flicked to the remaining operatives, then back to Vishakha.
“Fine,” Amrita said finally, stepping back. “Have it your way. But this isn’t over.”
She gestured to the operatives, and they withdrew, leaving the corridor littered with the bodies of their fallen comrades.
Vishakha didn’t relax. She kept her weapon raised as she watched Amrita retreat, her sister’s golden suit gleaming as she disappeared into the shadows.
Only when the silence returned did Vishakha lower her katar.
She turned to Shekhar, who was trembling in the alcove. “Get up,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.
He scrambled to his feet, clutching the briefcase like a lifeline.
“We need to move,” Vishakha said. Her voice was steady, but her mind was racing. Amrita had let her go—but why?
The answer would have to wait.
The corridor was eerily quiet now, but Vishakha knew better than to trust the silence. The Shadow Order’s operatives were methodical; retreat wasn’t a sign of surrender, but of regrouping. Every second they lingered increased the odds of reinforcements swarming the area.
“Stay close,” Vishakha said, her voice low but firm. She retrieved her thrown katar from the downed operative, wiping the blade clean on his sleeve before sheathing it.
Shekhar nodded mutely, his face pale. His grip on the briefcase hadn’t loosened—it was as if he feared letting it go would cost him his life.
Vishakha’s sharp eyes scanned the corridor, noting the scattered bodies of the operatives she had incapacitated. Amrita’s calculated retreat left her uneasy. It wasn’t like her sister to leave a fight unfinished, especially when victory seemed within reach.
“She let us go,” Vishakha muttered, more to herself than to Shekhar.
“What?” Shekhar asked, his voice trembling.
“Nothing. Let’s move.”
They hurried down the hallway, Vishakha keeping to the shadows and motioning for Shekhar to follow her lead. She activated the Chhaya Cloak for brief bursts, allowing them to slip past the occasional hotel staff or patrolling security guard unnoticed.
Her earpiece crackled to life, and Dev’s voice cut through the static. “Vishakha, you’re still inside. What’s the holdup?”
“Ran into Amrita,” she replied tersely.
A pause. “And you’re still alive? That’s… surprising.”
“She let me go.”
“That doesn’t sound like her.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Vishakha said grimly. “I’m heading for the service stairwell. Do you have eyes on the exits?”
Dev’s tone grew serious. “South and west exits are crawling with operatives. They’ve locked the hotel down. Best bet is the east wing—the loading dock.”
“Got it.” She ended the transmission and turned to Shekhar. “We’re heading for the loading dock. Stay behind me, stay quiet, and don’t do anything stupid.”
He nodded, his lips pressed into a thin line.
As they moved through the east wing, the tension grew palpable. The marble floors and ornate walls felt oppressive, their grandeur masking the dangers lurking just out of sight. Vishakha’s mind worked quickly, mapping out potential ambush points and alternate escape routes.
They rounded a corner, and Vishakha froze, holding up a hand to stop Shekhar. Ahead, a pair of Shadow Order operatives patrolled the hallway, their weapons at the ready.
“Down,” she whispered, pulling Shekhar into a recessed doorway.
The operatives moved with practiced precision, their eyes scanning every corner. Vishakha clenched her jaw, calculating the timing and angles needed to neutralize them without drawing attention.
As the operatives passed, she acted.
Her movements were swift and silent, her katars slicing through the air. The first operative crumpled before he could make a sound, Vishakha’s blade striking the pressure point at the base of his neck. The second turned, startled, but she was faster, her katar finding its mark in his side.
She lowered the second body to the ground gently, her eyes scanning the hallway for signs of reinforcements.
Shekhar stared at her, his expression a mix of awe and fear.
“Keep moving,” Vishakha ordered, tugging him forward.
The loading dock was just ahead now, its wide metal doors visible at the end of a long corridor. A faint hum of machinery echoed through the space, accompanied by the occasional clatter of crates being shifted.
Vishakha pressed herself against the wall, peering around the corner to assess the area. The loading dock was dimly lit, its concrete floors slick with grease and water. A truck idled near the far end, its engine rumbling softly.
And standing between them and freedom were four Shadow Order operatives, their stances alert and their weapons drawn.
“Let me guess,” Shekhar whispered, his voice trembling. “You have a plan for this, right?”
Vishakha smirked faintly. “Always.”
She reached into her belt and retrieved a small, spherical device—a smoke bomb, its surface etched with the faint glow of embedded circuits.
“Stay here,” she instructed, placing the briefcase in his hands. “When I give the signal, you run for the truck and don’t stop. Got it?”
Shekhar hesitated, his eyes darting between her and the operatives.
“Got it?” she repeated, her tone leaving no room for argument.
“Got it,” he said reluctantly.
Vishakha activated the smoke bomb and hurled it into the center of the loading dock. The device erupted in a thick plume of gray smoke, blanketing the area in an instant.
The operatives shouted in confusion, their movements disoriented as the smoke obscured their vision.
Vishakha moved like a phantom, her Chhaya Cloak flickering as she weaved through the chaos. She disabled one operative with a precise strike to the back of the knee, his weapon clattering to the ground. Another spun toward her, but she was already behind him, her katar slicing through his defenses.
The third operative fired blindly into the smoke, the bullets ricocheting off the walls. Vishakha ducked low, closing the distance and disarming him with a sharp twist of his wrist.
By the time the smoke began to clear, only one operative remained standing. He turned to flee, but Vishakha’s chakram found its mark, the disc striking his leg and sending him sprawling to the ground.
“Now!” she shouted to Shekhar.
He bolted from his hiding spot, clutching the briefcase as he sprinted toward the truck. Vishakha followed close behind, her eyes scanning for any last-minute threats.
The driver of the truck, a contact Dev had arranged, opened the door and waved them inside.
“Move it!” Vishakha barked, shoving Shekhar into the truck before climbing in after him.
The driver didn’t need further encouragement. The truck roared to life, its tires screeching as it sped out of the loading dock and into the night.
Vishakha leaned back against the seat, her katars still gripped tightly in her hands. Her breathing was steady, but her mind raced with questions.
Amrita’s retreat, the heightened presence of Shadow Order operatives, and Shekhar’s cryptic briefcase—all of it pointed to something bigger than she had anticipated.
She glanced at Shekhar, who clung to the briefcase like a drowning man clutching a lifeline.
“You’re going to tell me everything,” she said, her voice calm but laced with steel.
The safe house was tucked away in a forgotten corner of the Jaipur outskirts, its nondescript façade blending seamlessly with the surrounding industrial sprawl. Vishakha pushed open the rusted metal door, her katars still within easy reach as she scanned the interior.
The room was sparse, lit by a single hanging bulb that cast stark shadows across the walls. A worn table and two mismatched chairs occupied the center of the space, with a small cot shoved against the far wall. The air smelled faintly of oil and dust—a haven designed for practicality, not comfort.
“Sit,” Vishakha ordered, gesturing toward the chair nearest the table.
Shekhar hesitated, glancing nervously at her before sinking into the chair. His fingers clung to the briefcase, his knuckles white against the leather.
Vishakha closed the door behind them, sliding the lock into place before activating the signal jammer tucked into her belt. A faint hum filled the room as the device rendered them invisible to electronic surveillance.
She turned to face Shekhar, her arms crossed. “Start talking,” she said, her voice cold and steady. “What’s in the briefcase?”
Shekhar swallowed hard, his eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape route. “I… I can’t tell you,” he stammered. “If they find out—”
“They’ll kill you,” Vishakha finished for him, her tone laced with sarcasm. “Newsflash: they’re already trying to kill you. And now, thanks to you, they’re trying to kill me too. So start explaining before I decide you’re not worth the trouble.”
Shekhar flinched at her words, clutching the briefcase tighter. “It’s… it’s financial records,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “Proof that Aryan is funneling money through shell companies to fund covert operations. He’s been paying off politicians, judges, and military officials—anyone who can help expand the Shadow Order’s influence.”
Vishakha’s eyes narrowed. “That’s it? Bribes and payoffs? You risked your life for something I could have guessed in my sleep?”
“There’s more,” Shekhar said quickly. “There’s a list of names—sleeper agents embedded in key positions across Bharat Varsha. People Aryan controls. If this list gets out, it could unravel everything he’s built.”
Vishakha’s heart skipped a beat. Sleeper agents. The Shadow Order’s reach was broader than she’d feared. If Shekhar was telling the truth, the names in that briefcase could expose the Order’s entire network.
“Let me see it,” she said, holding out her hand.
Shekhar hesitated, his gaze flicking between her and the briefcase. “I can’t,” he said. “You don’t understand what’s at stake. If Aryan finds out I’ve—”
Vishakha slammed her hands onto the table, the sudden movement making him jump. Her katars clattered against the wood, their edges gleaming under the dim light.
“Stop stalling,” she growled. “If you think Aryan’s going to show mercy, you’re more of an idiot than I thought. Give me the briefcase. Now.”
Trembling, Shekhar relented. He placed the briefcase on the table, his hands lingering on it for a moment before stepping back.
Vishakha flipped the latches open and lifted the lid. Inside, neatly organized in slim compartments, were stacks of documents, USB drives, and a sleek tablet. She pulled the tablet free, her fingers dancing across its screen as it powered up.
Encrypted files greeted her, their contents locked behind layers of security. Vishakha’s eyes narrowed. The Shadow Order’s digital defenses were formidable, but she’d cracked their codes before.
“Who else knows you have this?” she asked, her attention focused on the tablet.
“No one,” Shekhar said, his voice trembling. “I—I was supposed to deliver it to a contact in Delhi, but I didn’t trust them. I thought they might be working for Aryan.”
“Smart,” Vishakha said without looking up. “You’re not as dumb as you look.”
She pulled a small decryption device from her belt, connecting it to the tablet. The screen flickered as the device went to work, bypassing the first layer of encryption.
Minutes passed in tense silence. Shekhar shifted nervously in his seat, his gaze darting toward the locked door.
Finally, the tablet’s screen brightened, its contents revealing themselves. Names, dates, and financial transactions scrolled across the display, each one a damning piece of evidence against the Shadow Order.
Vishakha’s stomach churned as she read the names. Judges, generals, politicians—figures she had once thought untouchable, now revealed as pawns in Aryan’s game.
And then she saw it.
At the bottom of the list was a name she hadn’t expected to see. Her breath caught in her throat as the letters stared back at her, stark and unyielding.
“Amrita.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, the weight of the revelation pressing down on her. Her sister wasn’t just an enforcer for the Shadow Order—she was one of Aryan’s highest-ranking sleeper agents, embedded within the very fabric of the Order’s operations.
“Vishakha?” Shekhar’s voice broke through her thoughts.
She opened her eyes, her expression hardening. “This changes everything,” she said, her voice quiet but resolute.
“What do we do now?” Shekhar asked, his tone laced with desperation.
Vishakha closed the briefcase and stood, her katars glinting as she strapped them back into place. “We take this to someone who can use it,” she said. “But first, we make sure Aryan doesn’t get the chance to bury it—or us.”
She turned to Shekhar, her gaze steady. “You stay here. Don’t leave, don’t answer the door, and don’t touch anything. I’ll be back when it’s safe.”
“What about you?” Shekhar asked, his fear evident.
Vishakha allowed herself a faint smirk. “Don’t worry about me,” she said, heading for the door. “Worry about what happens if I don’t come back.”
As she stepped into the night, her mind churned with the implications of what she’d uncovered. Aryan’s network, Amrita’s role, and the briefcase’s explosive contents—it all pointed to a storm brewing on the horizon.
And Vishakha was ready to face it.