The forest breathed around them. Branches curled like watchful fingers, leaves whispered secrets only Tamilselvi could hear. The world had grown strange in the absence of Shankarabaranam. Even shadows seemed heavier, more deliberate, as if plotting their own rebellion.
Kutty stumbled over a gnarled root, heart racing. "Are we safe?"
Tamilselvi's eyes narrowed. "Safe? Never. But we're alive, and that is enough for now. The soldiers will not follow blindly. Not yet. They hunt names, yes, but they are blind without their master's instructions."
From the dark canopy above, a movement drew their attention. One figure detached itself from the shadows—a woman. Her hair fell like midnight, her eyes glimmered with danger, and her every step was calculated. Kalaavathi, the shadow-dancer, moved as though the air itself feared to touch her.
Kutty froze. "Who…?"
"She is not your enemy," Tamilselvi said softly. "But she has enemies of her own."
Kalaavathi landed silently before them, shadows stretching from her form like living serpents. The tendrils wrapped around the nearest trees, creeping over branches, and then whipped forward with precision, striking unseen targets in the forest. A group of Naayak's soldiers emerged from the treeline, but before they could raise a weapon, the shadows struck.
Bodies crumpled silently, soundless as if swallowed by the forest itself. Not a scream, not a thud, just the soft whisper of leaves disturbed. Kutty's eyes widened.
"She… she killed them… without… without making a sound," he breathed.
Kalaavathi's lips twitched, half-smile, half-snarl. "Silence is a weapon. Something you will understand if you survive long enough."
"Why help us?" Kutty asked, voice trembling.
She glanced at him, eyes cold but thoughtful. "Because I once killed children like you. For him." She flicked a shadowed finger toward the horizon, where the first hints of Naayak's encampment burned faintly in the early light. "I am repaying a debt."
Tamilselvi placed a hand on Kutty's shoulder. "She is our ally for now. But even allies have their own demons. Watch her carefully."
The trio moved deeper into the forest. Every step was a negotiation with the land. Roots twisted to impede them; pools of water reflected faces that had never existed. The forest tested them. Kutty, for the first time, felt the weight of the world not just in his ears but in his bones. Every heartbeat, every tremor, every shiver of wind carried a warning or a lesson.
Hours later, they reached a small clearing. Kutty's chest heaved. "Are we stopping here?"
"No," said Kalaavathi. "We're not hiding. We're preparing."
Tamilselvi's eyes scanned the horizon. "Naayak's scouts have tracked us this far. They know the forest, they know the plains, but they cannot hear the song of Rangoli the way we do."
"What song?" Kutty asked.
"The song of life," she replied. "The song that flows through rivers, through trees, through every creature. Shankarabaranam taught it to the world. And now… you must learn to hear it. To protect it. To fight with it."
At that moment, a rustling sound echoed from the far edge of the clearing. Not ordinary movement, but deliberate, cautious. Kutty and Tamilselvi froze. Kalaavathi's eyes narrowed.
From the shadows emerged another figure—not quite human, not entirely spectral. A faint blue glow surrounded his body, illuminating a face etched with humor and pain. Govinda, illusionist-warrior, stepped forward, bowing theatrically.
"Ah! And here we have the famous Kutty, the Listener," he said, voice rich with mockery. "I take it you've already met the Shadow Lady. Delightful, isn't she?"
Kalaavathi's shadow surged protectively.
"Who are you?"
Govinda grinned. "I am the one who makes death hesitate. The one who teaches warriors to laugh at the impossible. And if you're very lucky, I may even save your lives."
Kutty tilted his head. "Save… how?"
Govinda's smile turned serious. "By creating illusions strong enough to convince even soldiers that reality is not reality. By turning fear into confusion. By making the impossible seem inevitable… for your enemies, of course."
Before anyone could respond, the forest floor vibrated. A sharp, metallic thrum, like drums beating across the horizon. Naayak's army was coming—faster than they had anticipated. The forest darkened under the weight of impending violence, the air thick with tension.
Kalaavathi's shadow writhed. "They are coming for you. And they will not stop."
Govinda's grin returned. "Good. Then it's time for a lesson in chaos."
What followed was the first true battle Kutty had ever witnessed. Shadows struck first, silent and precise. Illusions erupted next, creating dozens of Veeras—copies of a warrior no one could tell from the real. Soldiers fired arrows that vanished into phantasms, weapons clattered against air. And through it all, Kutty felt the vibrations of Rangoli's song growing stronger—soft at first, like a heartbeat, then surging into a rhythm that resonated through his bones.
He realized something terrifying. He was part of it. His presence, his attention, his listening, amplified the song of the land. Without knowing it, he was already a weapon.
By nightfall, the forest was quiet again. The soldiers lay unconscious, trapped in illusions of their own making. Govinda collapsed onto a fallen log, grinning through exhaustion.
"You see?" he said. "I make chaos look effortless. Well… mostly."
Kalaavathi's eyes softened slightly. "He is… reckless," she said.
Tamilselvi placed a hand on Kutty's shoulder. "And he is necessary. There are many ways to fight, and all of them will be needed. Remember this, Kutty: the world is not won by strength alone. It is won by attention, by understanding, by choice."
Kutty nodded slowly, feeling the weight of every life around him, every note the world whispered. He understood now that the fight ahead was not just against Naayak's armies—it was against silence itself. Against the forgetting of everything Rangoli had once been.
That night, under a sky of faintly glowing stars, Kutty closed his eyes and listened. The song of Rangoli rose within him, a fragile, trembling melody. And for the first time, he hummed back.
It was a single note. Weak. Imperfect. But it was his. And the world responded.