Not Alone in the Battle

They say all mystics are forged in solitude…but in the stillness where old ghosts breathe and spells seek blood, he stands beside her—and she will not walk through them alone.

~~~~~

"Tell me now….what is your true identity?" she says, with quiet urgency.

He takes a slow step closer, eyes fixed on hers, closing the distance with a quiet pull, like gravity drawn not to earth, but to her.

She leans back slightly, uncertain. Her breath catching in her throat.

"I…am…" he begins, then steps back. "Just a man. A human."

"Liar", she says softly, but firmly, "you are not."

"The moment I touched your hands… I knew there was no warmth in your skin. Not like theirs, not like ours. You are something else."

Her voice like steel wrapped in silk.

 "And you?" he speaks low, holding her gaze. "You are not like others either. So, tell me… does that mean you are not human too?"

"Don't turn this on me," she says, lifting her chin just a little "I am not the one hiding behind half-truths."

But the dragon is not looking at her anymore. His eyes shift….Just slightly. Just enough. Upward.

There is something in the sky above them, evil and fast. A streak of shadow— a spell born from black magic, laced in hatred, coming straight to Shaamvi.

Not wondering. Not random. It is targeted for her.

She doesn't see it. She doesn't feel it.

But KaanKuwar does.

And his dragon blood responds first— not his mind, not even his heart, his instinct.

He moves.

A single powerful step forward, and he pulls her into his chest, fast and tight.

She gasps in surprise, her face buried in his shoulder.

The air behind them crackles, light and shadow collide like thunder without sound.

The spell crashes down, but it doesn't touch her.

His energy flares and with a single unseen sweep of his hand, he deflects the dark magic away from them.

It twists mid-air, like a curse thrown off its thread, clawing for the nearest thing to consume.

It veers suddenly, crashing to the ground, near where the brass box lies.

Because of the surge of negative energy around it, the brass box begin to weaken, the spirit inside absorbs just enough power, and the box cracks—freeing it.

Shaamvi doesn't understand what's happening, but the moment she hears the crack and feels the sudden shift in the air, she pushes him back, breath catching. "What did you just do?"

He straightens with quiet ease, dusting his palms, as if brushing off not just dirt, but the weight of what just passed, like shedding shadows from his skin.

"You must have a lot of enemies." His voice is too casual. Too composed for what

happened just now.

Her eyes widen. "Are you serious right now? You just freed that spirit?"

He pauses. His jaw tenses.

"I....no. That wasn't me. It was because of…"

She cuts him mid-sentence.

"Shut up" she says sharply, not out of anger….but out of frustration.

Worry stitched into her spine.

Without another word, she walks away with the cracked brass box clenched in her hands.

Her steps are quick and precise, like she is chasing back control before it slips too far.

He stands there, watching her go.

And then, barely audibly, "Stupid humans," he murmurs to himself.

The next dawn, the sky is pale silver, and the wind sharp with mountain breath.

She is alone now, high on the ridge where clouds kiss stone.

The world below is distant.

The new brass box rests before her.

She is ready to start the ritual.

She must summon the spirit and bind it again before it finds another body to steal.

She closes her eyes. The air folds in on itself just as she's about to begin.

"I knew I would find you here," his voice cuts through the stillness. Low. Certain. Like a whisper of thunder before a storm.

It's him—KaanKuwar.

"There are no other mountains nearby to hold a ritual like this."

Her eyes flutter open. "Not again. Please."

He steps forward, calm as ever. "You can't do this alone."

"I can", she replies, firm. "I have done it before, many times."

His voice lowers, solemn.

"The spirit that night absorbed a lot of energy, not just negativity but the energy of black magic. Malicious…targeted spells."

Shaamvi blinks, confusion clouding her expression. "What do you mean?"

He doesn't answer right away, instead he kneels beside her.

His hand brushes over the mountain soil. Rough and cool beneath his fingers.

A quiet surge of energy flows from his palm into the ritual ground. Subtle at first, then spreading like veins of light beneath the surface — strengthening the ground, cleansing it, so that when the spirit arrives, it finds no chaos to feed on.

The earth settles, ritual ground exhales, and then he rises. 

"It wasn't me who freed the spirit," he says at last. "But it happened because of me. I was only trying to protect you."

Her eyes soften, conflicted.

She has no reason to trust him — no proof, no promise, no past.

Logic says he is dangerous.

Every part of him radiates the unknown, the kind of unknown that should make her run.

And yet she feels no threat standing beside him, only calm and stillness, like her breath just before a sacred chant… and something that feels dangerously close to peace.

Mystic ghost hunters like her are always alone. It is the price of knowing, the cost of carrying unearthly powers. But today, with him at her side, she is not alone in the battle.

And though the shadows gather, she will not walk through them alone.