Entry There Is Forbidden

The soft clinking of utensils from the kitchen ceased as Chhaya, stepped into the main hall, wiping her hands. Relief flooded her features as she saw Myhra had returned as promised, but her expression quickly shifted to one of concern. She had heard faint voices, the murmuring that spoke of an unusual guest, and it had tugged her attention from the preparations.

Chhaya's gaze settled on Myhra kneeling beside a small, pale boy with an ethereal look about him, his thin fingers clutched tightly in her daughter's steady hand.

"Myhra…" she began softly, "who is this child?" Chhaya's brow furrowed slightly as she took in the boy's appearance. His skin was almost translucent, his eyes wide and uncertain, as if he'd just been pulled from some unseen darkness into the light. 

Chhaya glanced at the boy, offering a brief, comforting smile before turning back to Myhra with a sharper look. "And why is he here?" she asked, her tone measured but pressing. "We're leaving soon—you know that."

Their home, set far from the village's main circle, rarely saw visitors, especially at this hour. Chhaya's eyes swept the yard, her senses sharpening as she searched for any trace of others. The stillness of the area seemed to amplify the oddness of the situation.

"What's he doing out here on his own?" she asked, her words quieter now but no less pointed. "Should we expect his parents to show up?"

The boy shuffled slightly, his small hands gripping the edge of his shirt, his uncertain gaze flitting between them.

"No," Myhra replied, her tone firm and unyielding. "I found him in Castle. He was under attack. I had to intervene and bring him here to keep him safe."

"Castle? You mean the Redstone one!?" Chhaya's eyes widened in disbelief. "Did you fight with blood? " Without waiting for an answer, she closed the gap between them, her sharp gaze sweeping over Myhra for any sign of injury. "You're not hurt, are you?" she asked, her voice edged with concern. "And who would dare attack at dawn, during the Godly hours? Isn't this supposed to be their weakest time?"

Chhaya's sharp eyes swept over Myhra's frame, her movements precise and deliberate. Without warning, she grasped Myhra's wrist. The coldness of her touch made Myhra flinch, the faint imprint of fingers blooming on her skin like a silent accusation. Myhra bit back the wince, bracing herself for the inevitable reprimand.

Chhaya's frown deepened as she examined the wrist. "What happened?" she demanded. "Did you sprain this wielding that sword again?" Her tone carried the familiar edge of disapproval. "I've told you before to stop this madness. You're too fragile for such things. Swordsmanship is the duty of men, why do you have to claim that curse for yourself?" 

Though a part of Chhaya swelled with pride at Myhra's rising position within the council, she couldn't ignore the unease gnawing at her. Myhra's achievements were undeniable, but wouldn't it be better for her to excel from behind the table, where strategy and intellect ruled, rather than in the blood-soaked chaos of the battlefield? The fact that Myhra bore the mark of blood magic—a power both feared and loathed—only deepened her worry. Blood magic came with consequences, each spell eroding something unseen. And despite Myhra's strength, she was still a growing girl, vulnerable in ways Chhaya refused to voice aloud.

Myhra's expression hardened, a spark of defiance flickering in her eyes. Before she could respond, "Fragile?" a loud female voice echoed, sharp and cutting. "Is that what you see? Fragility?" her grandmother stepped into the room, her presence commanding despite her old frame. The delicate curls of fragrant smoke rose from the incense burner she carried, filling the air with an earthy calmness.

Chhaya stepped back, bowing her head slightly, but her frown remained. "Forgive me, Grandmother, but she—"

"Myhra didn't pick up the sword to prove anything, least of all to you," the grandmother interrupted, her tone sharp yet steady. "She picked it up because someone had to, and no one else was there. Swords aren't bound by gender, Chhaya, and neither is survival. Do you think courage waits for a man's hand? Or that duty should crumble under the weight of blind beliefs?"

Chhaya opened her mouth to respond, but the grandmother's piercing gaze silenced her. "If you're so eager to leave that duty to men," she continued, her voice rising slightly, "then maybe next time, you can wait for them to arrive while others bleed out."

Myhra's defiance softened into quiet gratitude, but unease flickered in her eyes. She didn't want the women of her house clashing like this, not when the first light of dawn had just graced the horizon. Her grandmother's words, however, hadn't finished lecturing the middle-aged woman.

"Grandma," Myhra interjected softly, stepping forward, her voice calm but firm. "Please. Mother only speaks from concern, not any form of malice." She cast a quick glance at Chhaya, whose head was bowed, her expression a mix of shame and frustration.

The grandmother's sharp gaze shifted to Myhra, assessing her carefully. "You shield her," she said, her tone lighter but still edged with authority. "But understand this, child: silence in the face of flawed thinking is as dangerous as inaction. You've chosen your path, and it will not be deterred by misplaced fears."

"I understand," Myhra replied, her voice steady. She turned to Chhaya, her expression softening."And I understand you, too. You worry because you care, and I'm grateful to have you. But this is who I am. I don't seek danger, but when it comes, I can't turn away."

Chhaya looked up, her frown easing slightly, though the worry in her eyes lingered. Her lips parted as if to respond, "This is akin to madness, you know why I say this?"as she said her mind. Grandmother had turned her full attention back to Chhaya, fully charged to . "You think this is madness? No, the true madness is sitting idly by, hoping someone stronger will come along to fix things, as you always do."

Chhaya flinched at the accusation, but the old woman pressed on, her voice cold as iron. "And with the ancient blood in your veins, Chhaya, how can you even think this way? Hiding behind tradition, ignoring the strength that should flow through you. Do you feel no shame?"

The words struck home, shattering Chhaya's composure. Her head snapped up, her eyes wide with a blend of pain and rage. Long-forgotten buried wounds tore open, bleeding raw emotion that stilled the very air around her.

"You called it shame, Mother?" Chhaya's voice broke, trembling with held-back emotion. "It's not shame. I've known it as fear." Her fists tightened, the tremors in her body spreading, fighting to keep her voice even. "I fear for her. I fear what this path will take from her—what it will cost her. And what it will cost me."

The old woman raised a brow, unmoved. "Fear is no excuse for cowardice. Only strength can overcome it," she said coldly, with unwavering certainty.

Chhaya's breath caught, and in an instant, her anger burst free. "Have you truly forgotten what I've already lost to this madness you call strength?" Her eyes locked onto the old woman's, defiant and broken all at once. "I've already buried one child because of this path. One child who believed they were strong enough, who thought they could fight fate!"

The utterance hit everyone in the room like a bolt of lightning. Myhra froze, the fire in her eyes snuffed out by a blow she hadn't prepared for. Her lips parted, but the words refused to come.

"I watched one of my daughters bleed to death," Chhaya continued, her voice rising, the pain pouring out like a dam breaking. "Because she believed in the same ideals you're pushing on Myhra. I won't bury another one of my child, Mother. I won't survive it."

The room fell deathly silent, the weight of her confession suffocating. Even the old woman faltered for a moment, her sharp gaze softening as the undeniable depth of Chhaya's pain seeped through.

"Mother, please..." Myhra's voice, barely above a whisper, broke through the quiet. She stepped forward, her hand trembling as it reached for Chhaya's arm. "Don't hurt your..."

Chhaya turned to her, her face streaked with unshed tears, the rawness of her pain evident. "You don't understand, Myhra," she said, her voice quivering with a mix of desperation and anguish. "You don't know what I've felt like to watch her slip away from me, to see her life drain from her body in my arms, helpless to stop it because of choices I couldn't stop her from making."

The confession disturbed Myhra, and she flinched, her eyes moistened instantly bluring her vision as the heaviness of her mother's grief settled over her, a suffocating burden she hadn't expected. She had always known her elder sisters were gone, her absence a quiet, painful shadow in the family's history. But she hadn't known—couldn't have imagined—that her mother had been there, had watched it unfold, living through that nightmare firsthand.

The realization crashed over Myhra like a wave, a fresh tide of guilt and sorrow threatening to drown her. Her voice wavered as she spoke, barely more than a whisper. "Mother, I-I... why didn't you tell..." she murmured, the words barely escaping her lips.

Chhaya's lips pressed into a thin, hard line, her hands trembling as she fought to keep her emotions in check. "Of course, I didn't," she said softly, the bitterness in her tone seeping through. "I never wanted you to know. I never wanted to burden you with the horror. But do you think it hasn't haunted me every single day? Do you think I don't see her face every time you manifest that bloody sword? And today…" Chhaya's voice cracked, her words trembling as if it was too much to bear. She took a deep breath, steadying herself. "Today, you overstepped every line. You've entered that wretched place."

Her every words was hitting Myhra like a shockwave as if her blood has seemed to freeze. Chhaya's gaze locked onto hers, her trembling hands now tightly clenched, her fury barely contained. "Who allowed you to enter? Didn't you know that any form of entry there is forbidden?" Her voice grew sharper, urgency and fear threading through each word. "What force took you there? If I had known you were heading there, I swear I would've locked you in the room." She finished with a near growl, but she knew it would never work on this child of hers. Whereas Myhra could only hear the underlying helplessness in her mother's tone.

The weight of her confession hung in the air like a sword poised to strike. Even Grandmother, whose unyielding demeanour rarely wavered, took a sharp breath, her expression shifting into one of quiet surprise. Her piercing gaze snapped to Myhra unrelenting.

"Did you really go in there?" Grandmother asked, her voice low, but there was no mistaking the urgency underlying her words. She paused, her eyes narrowing even further, before rephrasing. "You were able to get in? How?"

Myhra hesitated, her chest tightening under the ponderousness of their combined stares. Her mind try to beat, torn between the urge to shield them from the truth and the stark realisation that silence was no longer an option. Her throat felt dry as she finally spoke, 

"Yes, I went into the castle," she admitted, her words deliberate and heavy. "But there was no time to think, no time to hesitate. The blood oath had been taken, and I had to act. Outside the castle, I heard whispers—whispers I couldn't ignore. Yittann was in there, and he would've died if I hadn't acted."

At her words, all eyes turned to the boy, who sat huddled beside the sofa, his small frame trembling. The heated argument had clearly affected him, leaving him a pale, quivering mess. His wide, fearful eyes darted between the adults, his hands clutching the edge of his tunic as though it might shield him from the storm in the room.

Myhra faltered as she caught sight of the boy, her lips pressing into a thin line. Her shoulders sagged at the moment, and she took a hesitant step toward him. "Yittann," she said softly, her voice stripped of its earlier edge. "It's all right. You're safe now." But the boy flinched, shrinking further into himself, his face buried in his knees. Myhra's hand hovered in the air, unsure if her touch would comfort or frighten him more. She let it drop at his evident fear.

Behind her, a sharp, disdainful voice shattered the fragile calm. "He's from the cursed blood," the old lady declared, her words dripping with venom.