They left the house just before noon.
Arjun insisted on the timing. "The light needs to be overhead," he said, already fastening the iron latch on the gate. "Shadows behave better then."
Mihir did not ask what that meant.
The path Arjun chose did not lead toward the village or the main forest trail, but along a narrow dirt track half-swallowed by grass and thorny shrubs. Ant hills dotted the ground like small watchtowers, each ringed with red sindoor and broken hibiscus petals. Mihir noted them automatically—manasa thaan, snake goddess markers, offerings made to prevent bites and bad dreams.
"People still worship her here?" Mihir asked.
"They never stopped," Arjun replied. "They just learned not to speak her name aloud."
The forest thickened as they walked. Sunlight filtered through banyan and peepal leaves in fractured patterns, dappling the earth like ritual markings. Mihir became acutely aware of sound—or rather, the lack of it. No birds. No insects. Even their footsteps seemed muffled, absorbed too quickly by the soil.
After several minutes, Mihir realized something unsettling.
"This isn't on any map," he said.
Arjun glanced back at him. "Shrines like this never are."
They reached a clearing so suddenly it felt like stepping into a held breath. At its center stood a low stone structure, barely taller than Mihir's waist, choked by creepers and moss. Time had softened its edges, but the shape was unmistakable.
A shrine.
Not a temple—no walls, no roof. Just a raised stone platform carved with symbols that made Mihir's pulse jump.
"This is pre-Puranic," he whispered, moving closer. "Village tantra. Possibly even older."
"Yes," Arjun said. "This is where people came before gods had names."
The stone surface was stained dark in places. Old stains. Animal blood, Mihir realized, though no recent sacrifice had been made. Goat skull fragments lay arranged carefully beneath the platform, some cracked open, others intact.
At the foot of the shrine sat an elderly woman.
She wore a faded red sari pulled tightly around her thin frame, silver hair braided down her back. Her hands moved rhythmically as she sorted seeds into small piles—mustard, sesame, rice—murmuring under her breath.
She did not look surprised to see them.
"So," she said, eyes fixed on her work. "The Roy boy walks again."
Mihir stiffened. "You know me?"
She snorted softly. "I know your blood. That's enough."
Arjun inclined his head. "Ma Kamala."
She looked up then, gaze sharp and assessing. "You walk him too close already."
"He asked to see," Arjun replied evenly.
Kamala laughed, a dry sound. "They always do."
Mihir knelt instinctively, lowering himself to her level. "You tend this shrine?"
"I keep it from waking hungry," she said. "That's different."
She gestured for him to come closer. Mihir obeyed, heart hammering.
"Put your hand there," she instructed, pointing to a shallow depression carved into the stone.
Mihir hesitated. "What does it do?"
Kamala's smile was thin. "It remembers."
Arjun said nothing.
Mihir placed his palm against the stone.
The cold shocked him at first—then warmth bloomed beneath his skin, spreading up his arm like blood returning to a numb limb. His breath hitched.
Images flooded his mind unbidden.
Firelight flickering over chanting mouths. Blood poured deliberately, reverently. Roots writhing beneath earth not in pain, but anticipation.
He pulled his hand back with a gasp.
Kamala nodded. "Accepted," she said. "Not claimed yet."
Mihir's voice shook. "What is this place?"
"A mouth," she replied. "One of many."
Arjun stepped closer, standing just behind Mihir now. Not touching—but close enough that Mihir felt the chill of him seep through fabric.
"This shrine marks the boundary," Arjun said. "Between the village and what feeds it."
Mihir swallowed. "Feeds it how?"
Kamala spat to the side. "Protection always eats."
She rose slowly, joints cracking. "Your people understood that. Long before the house. Long before him."
She nodded once toward Arjun.
Mihir turned sharply. "You were worshipped?"
Arjun's expression did not change. "I was used."
Kamala barked a laugh. "Same thing, most days."
She reached into a cloth pouch and pulled out a length of red thread, knotted with bits of bone and seeds.
"Wear this," she said to Mihir. "Not to protect you. To mark you."
"To mark me for what?" Mihir asked.
Kamala met his gaze. "For attention."
Arjun's hand finally brushed Mihir's arm.
Just once.
"Not yet," he said softly—to Kamala, or to the forest, Mihir couldn't tell.
Kamala shrugged. "Your house will decide."
A low sound rippled through the trees—leaves shifting without wind.
Mihir felt it in his chest again, that answering breath.
"This shrine wasn't meant for me," he said, realization dawning. "It's meant for the Roys."
"Yes," Kamala said. "To remind them who they feed."
Mihir looked down at his hands.
Ash dusted his fingertips once more.
Arjun noticed immediately.
He took Mihir's wrist, thumb pressing lightly over his pulse. "We should go."
Kamala watched them retreat with something like pity.
"Tell him," she called after Arjun. "Before the forest does."
Arjun did not turn back.
They walked in silence until the mansion came back into view.
Only then did Mihir speak.
"You didn't tell me shrines could recognize blood."
Arjun glanced at him. "You didn't ask."
Mihir laughed weakly. "You say that a lot."
"Yes."
They stopped at the gate.
The banyan loomed beyond the walls, vast and patient.
Mihir felt it watching him now—not hungrily, not yet.
But knowingly.
Arjun leaned in, voice low.
"This was only the first place," he said. "There are others."
Mihir's chest tightened.
"How many?" he asked.
Arjun smiled faintly.
"As many as it takes," he replied.
And somewhere beneath the roots, something shifted—slowly, approvingly.