The islanders led us to a small temple hidden beside a narrow stream.
The air felt different there-heavier, quieter, as if even sound was afraid to exist.
The temple priest knelt near the water, scooped a handful from the stream, and whispered into it. His lips moved too fast, too urgently. Then he drank it.
That was when my fingers dug into Karan's arm.
Something had gone wrong.
His shoulders stiffened. His breath changed-short, sharp, uneven. The man who had been kneeling moments ago suddenly froze, like a body waiting for permission to move.
Karan leaned close, his voice barely audible.
"The island deity has entered his body."
Before I could react, the priest spoke-if it could still be called speaking. The words were unfamiliar, harsh, heavy with command. Not meant for everyone. Only for Karan.
Karan fell to his knees.
Not slowly. Not carefully. He bowed as if pushed by an invisible force, his forehead touching the ground. When he spoke, his voice trembled as he promised something-something important. Something binding.
The priest rose.
His chest expanded unnaturally, as though something inside him needed space. His posture changed-broader, dominant. When he stepped forward, each step carried a strange bounce, like restrained power struggling to stay contained. His hands shook violently, veins prominent, fingers twitching as if charged with electricity.
His eyes were terrifying.
Wider than before. Sharper. Watching everything at once.
When he spoke again, the sound cut through the air-loud, clear, unquestionable. The ground beneath my feet felt unstable, like the world had tilted without warning. Goosebumps spread across my skin, my breath catching painfully in my throat.
People around us were crying.
Silent tears streamed down their faces as they bowed whenever he turned toward them. He moved from left to right, scanning, judging. Was he scolding them? Or warning them? I couldn't tell-but fear pressed against my ribs like it wanted to escape.
Then he finished speaking.
The silence afterward was unbearable.
Karan broke down.
He shook violently, tears spilling freely as he bowed repeatedly, his hands trembling, his head touching the ground. His body looked too small for the weight he was carrying. Too human.
I couldn't move.
I had never believed in deities. Never believed in possession. Never believed in power that couldn't be explained.
But standing there-feeling the air vibrate, watching grown men cry, witnessing devotion collapse into terror-I felt something crack inside me.
Disbelief, in that moment, didn't feel logical.
It felt dangerous.
And for the first time in my life, not believing felt like a crime.
Karan said something, his hand lifting and pointing toward me.
It was unmistakable.
He was presenting me.
My heart skipped. I bowed immediately, copying the posture of the others, mirroring their movements without thinking. The air tightened.
The deity grew furious.
The man's face hardened, jaw clenched, eyes blazing with something that wasn't human. Karan spoke again-quickly this time-and a visible shock rippled through the islanders. Gasps. Widened eyes. Stiffened spines.
I wished desperately that I could understand what they were saying.
The deity raised his finger toward the sky, holding it there for a long, heavy second-then he turned and walked straight toward me.
Every step echoed.
He stopped inches away and placed his hand on my head.
His grip was firm. Tight. Commanding.
But it didn't hurt.
My entire body went still, breath trapped in my chest. I could feel the weight of his palm-the heat, the authority in that touch. Karan turned to me, his eyes wet, his voice shaking as he translated.
"The deity has blessed you," he said softly.
"You will have a boy soon."
My mind rebelled instantly.
I didn't want children. Not now. Not for at least three years.
But this wasn't the moment for logic. Or honesty. The islanders' faces glowed with belief, reverence trembling in their eyes. Saying no felt cruel. Disrespectful. Almost sinful.
So I smiled weakly and said,
"Why not a girl?"
Karan chuckled-nervous, amused-and translated my words.
The deity laughed.
The sound froze my blood.
It was loud, sudden, echoing-too deep, too sharp. For a brief, terrifying second, it sounded demonic. My stomach twisted, fear crawling up my spine.
Then the deity turned away.
He climbed onto a large stone nearby, placing one foot on it with deliberate force. He spoke again-words I couldn't understand-while spreading his arms wide, as if announcing something monumental to the world itself.
Then he stamped his foot down.
The stone became a throne.
Everyone bowed instantly.
I followed, my forehead lowered, heart pounding. When we finally looked up, the shift had already happened.
The man was sitting on the floor now.
Calm. Still. Hands folded. Breathing evenly.
Human again.
No blazing eyes. No trembling power. No thunder in his voice.
Just a normal man-quiet, grounded, present.
As if nothing had happened at all.
And somehow... that terrified me more.
I had a thousand questions, but none of them formed complete sentences.
What was happening?
Where exactly was I?
At what point had my life quietly crossed into unfamiliar territory?
Yet beneath all that confusion, one truth stood unshaken-after my marriage, every belief I had once held with certainty was being dismantled, piece by piece.
I had grown up believing monogamy was the most ethical form of love. The only structure that promised stability, dignity, and fairness. It was never something I questioned-it was something I inherited. And then I married three brothers, in a tribe where this arrangement had existed for generations, long before my certainty ever did.
Who decides what is right?
In the world I came from, monogamy did not guarantee happiness. People fell in love, fell out of it, married with hope, divorced with bitterness. Children did not anchor relationships, nor did vows prevent endings. Lives were stitched together and torn apart repeatedly, yet the system itself was never questioned-only the people within it.
If the destination was often the same-loneliness, resentment, quiet regret-then why did this structure appear more acceptable than the one I now lived in?
Why did this feel fair, while that was called natural?
And then there were the islanders-challenging beliefs I didn't even realize I was carrying.
They believed in deities not as distant rulers, but as living presences woven into everyday life. They lived with nature, not as conquerors or caretakers, but as participants. Women moved freely here-sometimes unclothed, sometimes adorned only by the wind-and yet no one stared. No one consumed them with their eyes. No one made them smaller with judgment.
There was no shame attached to the body.
Back home, even a fully covered woman was not safe from scrutiny. A hemline could be debated. A sleeve could invite commentary. If it wasn't the length of the dress, it was the fit, the color, the intention assumed behind it. There was always a flaw to be found, a discomfort disguised as morality.
Standing there, I realized something unsettling.
Perhaps modesty was never about clothing.
Perhaps morality was never about structure.
Perhaps faith was never about belief.
Maybe all of it-marriage, devotion, decency-was about intention.
And maybe the discomfort I felt wasn't because this world was wrong, but because it was quietly revealing the contradictions of my own.
For the first time, I wondered if belief systems weren't truths at all-but habits. Learned, repeated, defended, and rarely examined.
And as those habits began to loosen their grip, I felt both unmoored and strangely awake-standing between who I had been taught to be and who I was slowly becoming.