Yuvaan's eyes narrowed.
"What did you just say?" His voice was low now, dangerous in its restraint. "Repeat it."
Kiaan did not hesitate.
"I said," he replied evenly, his chin lifting just a little, "I'm not going to apologize."
A soft, humorless chuckle escaped Yuvaan's lips. It carried no amusement—only disbelief. "Kiaan," he said slowly, "apologize."
Kiaan's eyes flicked toward Rani for a brief second. Not fear. Not guilt. Only certainty.
"I will not apologize to her," he said. "She tried to harm me. I only defended myself."
The air felt heavier.
Yuvaan's patience snapped thread by thread. "Enough," he said sharply. "Apologize. Now."
Kiaan let out a short, bitter breath. "Even if you speak in all the languages of the world," he replied, shaking his head once, "there is only one answer."
He looked straight at Yuvaan.
"No."
Yuvaan's hand rose.
Fast.
Instinctive.
The room gasped collectively.
"Kiaan—apologize!" Yuvaan shouted.
"No!" Kiaan yelled back, his voice cracking the silence like glass.
The raised hand trembled midair.
And then—stopped.
Yuvaan froze, his palm hovering inches away, his breath ragged, his eyes locked onto his son's face.
Kiaan stared at the suspended hand.
A slow, wounded smile tugged at his lips—not playful, not innocent. It hurt to look at.
"Why did you stop?" he asked quietly. Too quietly. "You were about to give me the perfect birthday gift, weren't you?"
His voice trembled—not with fear, but with something far worse.
"Why did you stop?"
Silence screamed louder than any argument.
Kiaan turned abruptly, anger rolling off him like heat from fire. He pushed past the stunned adults and stormed out of the room, his footsteps sharp, echoing down the corridor.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then Bhoomi rushed after him.
Susheela followed.
Meera hesitated, clutching Rani closer.
Yuvaan stood rooted to the spot, staring at the space where his son had been—his raised hand slowly lowering, fingers curling as if they carried the weight of something irreparable.
And somewhere deep inside him, a terrible realization began to form.
This was no longer just anger.
This was breaking.
Meanwhile, Varun stepped cautiously through the eerie, purple-tinged mist of the fox realm. The magical compass in his hand quivered, its needle pointing steadily forward, pulling him toward the heart of this strange, untamed territory. The air was thick, almost alive, and carried a scent both sweet and wild.
Suddenly, a cage fell from above with a sharp clang. Varun barely dodged, but before he could recover, a dense purple fog surged from the cage, curling around him like living smoke. He coughed, struggling to draw air, his body growing heavy under the fog's pull.
Through the haze, he saw her—Dilruba—but not as she once had been. This was an illusion, shimmering and unreal, yet terrifyingly real in its detail. Her nine tails fanned out behind her, eyes glowing with a soft, intimate light. She stepped closer, and her voice, melodic and familiar, drifted directly into his mind.
"You can't escape me, Varun," she said, the words gentle, almost teasing. "But why would you want to? We are not enemies… never were. We are… lovers, you and I. You always have been."
Varun froze, heart hammering. His mind raced, trying to discern reality from magic. The cage rattled around him, and his hands gripped the bars tightly, but he couldn't deny the pull of her presence.
Three fox witches emerged silently from the shadows, their eyes glimmering in the purple fog. They circled the cage, their hands weaving faint, intricate patterns in the air. The fog thickened, and the illusion of Dilruba's smile deepened the pull in Varun's chest—sweet, dangerous, consuming.
"You don't need to struggle," she whispered again, stepping close, her tails brushing the fog around him. "I am here. I always have been."
Varun swallowed hard, the weight of the fog pressing on his lungs, but his resolve tightened. This was a test, yes, but he had to reach her, had to find the truth beneath the illusions. His fingers clenched into fists, determination flaring amidst the disorienting haze.
The witches exchanged a subtle nod, their whispers carrying promises and warnings alike. The journey had only just begun, and the realm itself seemed to pulse around him, alive with Dilruba's presence.
---
To be continued…