The night had a heaviness that seemed to press against the very air. Even the river, usually restless under the moon, flowed in uneasy silence, its surface rippling with a strange luminescent glow. Asma sat by her window, the old brass cord lying on her lap, the tiger charm faintly reflecting the flickering light of her oil lamp.
She couldn't shake off the unease that had grown inside her since returning from the Artisans' Guild ruins. The discovery of the fractured mural — and that faint whisper calling her name — had refused to leave her mind. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw a glimpse of something… or someone… standing by the river's edge, half-hidden by the mist.
The wind changed direction suddenly, rattling the bamboo chimes that hung outside her window. They clinked in uneven rhythms — almost as if forming a pattern. Asma leaned closer, her heart drumming faster.
Tap. Pause. Tap–tap. Pause. Tap.
It wasn't random. It was a rhythm she recognized — one her grandmother used to tap on her walking stick when warning Asma to stay away from danger.
She stepped outside, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders. The moonlight turned the mist silver, and the river shimmered as if hiding light beneath its skin. Then she saw it — carved freshly into the mud of the riverbank — a series of symbols, arranged in a circular pattern.
Not runes. Not letters. Something older.
She knelt and touched the first mark. It burned faintly beneath her skin, and a vision burst through her mind — flashes of the same river, but filled with shadow and blood-red light, her grandmother's voice crying out, "It's returning… the pact is breaking."
Asma stumbled back, gasping for breath. The moment she blinked, the marks were gone — as if wiped clean by invisible hands.
---
By morning, the fog had thickened to a ghostly white. Alok knocked on her door, his face pale, his notebook clutched tightly.
"You saw it too, didn't you?" he asked without greeting.
"What do you mean?"
"The river marks," he said quickly. "They've appeared before — only once, decades ago. Just before the flood that wiped out half this village."
He opened his notebook, showing her a page filled with old sketches — the exact same symbols she had seen last night.
Her hands trembled. "How did you—?"
"I found these in the archives at Guwahati University. They were recorded by a field scholar who never returned after the flood."
The words hung between them like a curse.
Asma took a deep breath. "Why are they appearing again?"
Alok looked at her for a long moment before answering. "Because someone has disturbed what was meant to sleep."
---
That evening, they went together to the ruins of the old guild. The path was littered with fallen leaves and fragments of pottery that seemed to hum faintly when touched. Asma held the brass cord tightly. The tiger charm was unusually warm against her skin.
Inside the central hall, shafts of dim light filtered through the collapsed roof, illuminating the mural on the far wall. But something was different — one of the painted figures had changed. The man who once stood holding a chisel now had his eyes crossed out in black soot. Below him, faintly etched into the wall, was a new symbol — the same one from the riverbank.
"Someone's been here," Alok whispered. "Recently."
Asma felt a presence — not seen, but felt — like a breath brushing the back of her neck. She turned sharply.
In the corner stood a man cloaked in deep green robes, half his face hidden beneath a mask carved of bone and brass. His voice, when he spoke, sounded like gravel and echo.
"You were not meant to take what the river gave back."
The brass cord in Asma's hand pulsed with heat. "Who are you?"
The man didn't answer. He raised his hand, revealing a fragment of parchment — old, cracked, and marked with the same river sigils. "The guild warned us long ago: every gift the river returns must be paid for."
Before she could respond, he stepped backward into the shadows. The air shimmered, and he was gone — as if the mist had swallowed him whole.
Alok rushed forward, shining his flashlight. Nothing. Only a faint smell of iron and wet earth.
Asma clutched the cord, heart pounding. "He knew about the river's gift."
Alok's voice was hoarse. "Or he was part of it."
---
That night, she couldn't sleep. The shadows of her room seemed alive, shifting with the rhythm of the river's flow. At midnight, a soft knock came at her window.
She froze.
Then came a whisper — low, hollow, and impossible to mistake: "Asma… return what isn't yours."
The sound came from nowhere and everywhere at once. The oil lamp flickered, and the brass charm began to glow faintly — its tiger's eyes burning orange. She reached out, trembling, and touched it.
Instantly, visions flooded her mind —
A procession by the river, robed figures chanting in a language she didn't know.
A young woman lowering a cord — this same cord — into the water as an offering.
And above it all, a colossal shadow rising from the river depths — ancient, watchful, and alive.
When she opened her eyes, the glow faded. But something new had appeared — on her palm, faintly marked, the same sigil from the riverbank.
---
The next morning, Alok came running to her house. "The guild vault — it's been broken into."
They hurried back to the site, only to find the old wooden floor torn apart, the earth beneath it freshly disturbed. In the hollow space below, an ancient chest lay half-open. Inside, among scraps of parchment and rusted tools, was a stone tablet — its surface etched with spirals of text and a line of symbols that shimmered faintly in daylight.
Alok traced the carvings. "It's a warning," he murmured. "It says — The ones who awaken the memory shall bear its echo."
Asma felt the mark on her palm burn. "It's already begun, hasn't it?"
He nodded slowly. "Yes. And the river is watching."
---
That night, the first storm rolled in. The wind screamed through the trees, lightning flashing across the dark horizon. Asma stood at her window, watching the river swell, glowing faintly with a light that came from within.
And through the thunder, she heard it again — the same whisper that had haunted her dreams.
"Return the gift, or the river will remember for you."
She clutched the cord tightly, eyes burning with defiance and fear.
"No," she whispered. "Not this time."
Far off, lightning struck the water — and for a brief, heart-stopping moment, she saw the reflection of a figure standing in the middle of the river.
A figure wearing a mask of bone and brass.
Then the river roared, and the vision was gone.
But Asma knew.
The first warning had come.
And whatever was waking beneath the river — had already opened its eyes.