The train's wheels hummed against the tracks—soft at first, then heavier, as if the land itself grew dense beneath them.
It was nearing its destination.
Banaras.
Inside the dim compartment, the benches were mostly empty—except for a few quiet faces, all Indian. No British passengers. They never shared compartments this deep into Bengal. Hatred made for fine dividers—better than steel.
A wind slipped through the half-open window. It toyed with Isarish's hair, tousling it like ghost fingers as he flipped through a worn folder in his hands—the one Carlson had handed him before departure.
Across from him, Subhash sat hunched, half-awake, half-annoyed, legs lazily stretched.
Finally, he spoke.
"I still don't get it…" he muttered, voice scratchy from sleep. "Why would the British suddenly care about a village on fire?"
His tone wasn't cynical. Just… honest.
Isarish didn't look up from the pages. His fingers moved, slow and deliberate, as he turned another sheet and replied:
"I wondered the same, until Carlson handed me this."
He held up the file with a tap of his index finger.
"It's not just a village. It's the eighth one."
"All around Banaras—eight burnings. Over 250 Indians dead. More than 100 British. And still… no newspaper headline. No widespread outrage."
"You know what that means, Subhash?"
Subhash blinked. Then leaned forward, the train's rumble filling the pause.
Isarish closed the file gently, like sealing a coffin.
"It means the British aren't worried about the fire. They're worried about who's lighting it."
The wind picked up again, and outside the window, the holy city began to creep into view—domes, bells, distant smoke.
Isarish continued, almost to himself now.
"The attacks happened under Mr. Henry Birmingham's territory. A man powerful enough to own silence. And now, his daughter is set to marry Edward Carlson."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Imagine that. A rebellion under your future father-in-law's nose… Doesn't look good in a wedding toast."
Subhash smirked, but his eyes were sharp.
"So what's this cult, really? Who's their leader?" Isarish's fingers tapped the file's edge.
"No names. No manifesto. Just chaos and fire. The only arrest was a man caught after the last burning—described as a lunatic… rambling nonsense about freedom and God's silence." "They dismissed him as a fanatic. But…" He paused. Looked out the window again. "…I've learned that those who sound foolish in courtrooms… often sound dangerous in caves."
Banaras drew closer. The fog began to rise—like the city exhaling secrets While Banaras prepared to swallow the scent of smoke and blood once more, deep within the blackened heart of Bengal's grandeur— in a mansion older than memory, richer than gods— a new fire was being born.
The Friedrich Estate.
The private palace of the East India Company's throne.
Marble halls colder than forgiveness. Silk curtains heavier than the British conscience.
And in the center of it all— Mrs. Elsa Friedrich. The second wife of the owner of east india company
She stood alone, in her private drawing room.
A single flame danced in front of her face— the silver flick of her antique gold-rimmed lighter, held delicately between two gloved fingers.
Her green eyes watched the fire. Unblinking. Hungry. Like they were not reflecting the flame, but devouring it.
Two guards entered through the carved teak doors.
Between them, they dragged a frail, trembling woman. Wrists bound. Shoulders slumped. The mother of the late General Albert Hall.
Face sunken. Lip bloodied. But still weeping with pride and fear—like grief had forgotten how to die inside her.
The first guard spoke with soldier-like coldness.
"Ma'am, Isarish solved the case. Mr. Carlson has sent him to Banaras."
The second added as they shoved the woman forward:
"And as ordered… we brought her. The mother."
Elsa didn't flinch.
She leaned back in her velvet chair, crossing one leg over the other.
The gold from the lighter flickered in her eyes again.
"Ma'am… please forgive me!" the old woman wailed. "I-I didn't know that my act… that even grief wouldn't fool that man! Just one more chance, I beg you…"
Her voice cracked like rotting wood.
Elsa didn't blink. She simply tossed something toward the floor.
A small velvet pouch landed with a dull thud. It burst open—gold coins spilling across the marble.
The old woman collapsed, sobbing, her hands crawling toward it.-
But Elsa's voice came then. Sweet. Elegant. But sharper than razors.
"That philosopher with a blade for a tongue…" "He may be a nuisance—but I must admit…"
She smiled—slow and cruel.
"…he's far more useful than this rotting shell."
She rose from her seat. Her gown flowed like violet mist behind her. She walked toward the old woman and crouched low, lifting her chin with two icy fingers.
"At least he leaves people speechless by wit, not begging."
The moonlight pierced through a tall cathedral window. It struck Elsa's emerald eyes— and for a breathless second, she looked like a goddess made from bone and cruelty.
"Take her," she whispered to the guards. "Start with her fingers… then her tongue. Make the cuts clean. Feed what's left to the dogs. I hate waste."
The guards moved forward.
The woman screamed—
"PLEASE, MA'AM! I BEG YOU! DON'T DO THIS—" "YOUR GREED… YOUR GREED WILL DESTROY YOU!" "THIS EMPIRE—WILL BE ASHES! MARK MY W—"
But her voice dissolved… slice by slice… until the only thing that remained was silence. And in that silence… Elsa smiled. Not out of joy.
But because some people were born not to fear monsters— but to breed them.
As Isarish was quietly admiring the land of epics—where myth and blood often blurred—the sharp scent of marigolds and mud filled his lungs.
He leaned slightly toward the window, letting the chill whisper against his cheek.
Then…
He heard it.
A pleasant voice—low, calm, sweet—
but with a strange clarity, like it wasn't meant to be loud, just impossible to ignore.
It wasn't singing.
It wasn't preaching.
It was… telling a story.
And Isarish, for reasons he couldn't name, stopped thinking and just… listened.
---
"Once, there was a curious little crow,
all black, and quiet, and clever.
Every night, he looked up at the sky,
and there he saw the moon—
round and glowing, like a pearl in the heavens."
---
"The crow watched it night after night,
and whispered to himself:
'If it watches the whole world…
why doesn't it ever speak?'
---
"So the little crow decided—
he would fly.
Higher than any crow had ever flown before.
Past sleepy clouds, past gentle storms,
past stars that blinked like lanterns."
---
"And one day…
he reached the moon."
---
"But the moon said nothing.
Not even hello."
---
"So the little crow, being quite determined…
did something no crow had done before.
He wrapped his wings around the moon,
and brought it down to Earth."
---
"But oh—
without the moon in the sky…
the world became very, very dark."
---
He looked at his son with a kind smile.
"What do you think people did when everything turned dark?"
The boy blinked, then answered carefully:
"They… tried to find the light?"
The father nodded with a pleased hum.
"Very good.
But not everyone searched the sky."
---
"Some looked around.
And there, in the dark,
they found other people."
---
"One person held up a candle and said,
'Follow me—I know the way.'
Another showed a mirror and said,
'Look! I can help you see yourself!'
And a third offered bread and said,
'Eat this—and you'll never be afraid again.'
---
The people, so lost and scared,
followed them.
They listened.
They believed."
---
The boy tilted his head.
"But Baba… what if those people were wrong?"
The father's smile didn't fade, but his voice turned quiet.
"Well… sometimes, my dear,
when the world is very dark—
even the tiniest flame feels like the sun.
And people will walk toward it,
even if it burns them."
---
"The little crow sat in an old tree,
with the moon tucked under his wings.
Watching."
---
"Finally, the moon whispered to him,
"Why did you bring me here?'"
---
"And the crow said,
'Because they only look for you when you shine.
I wanted to see who they'd become
when you didn't.'
---
The boy fell quiet. Then asked:
"And what did they become?"
---
"The crow looked down at them,
all arguing, and following,
and forgetting who they were…"
"And he said:
'They spent all their time cleaning the mirror…
but never looked at their own faces.'
'They chased freedom until it made them tired.'
'They called love a miracle…
right before they hurt people for it.'
---
"The moon began to cry.
But the crow?
He just stayed still."
---
His son looked up again.
"What happened to the little crow, Baba?"
The father chuckled gently, brushing a bit of dust from the boy's collar.
"He's still flying.
Looking for another sky to play with.
Maybe one where people don't forget themselves so quickly."
---
To the son, it was just a story.
But to the man sitting a row back—
Isarish didn't blink.
Didn't exhale.
Didn't move.
Because what he had just heard…
Wasn't a fable.
It was a diagnosis.