June 15, 1992
The Bombay evening was a restless twilight, the sky streaked with crimson as the city hummed with its relentless energy. Shiva stood at the apartment's window, the crystal shard in his pocket a cold weight against his thigh, its once-vivid pulse now a faint murmur. The Kaal's marks on his hands, hidden beneath fresh bandages, glowed softly, a constant reminder of the power he'd wielded—and the price he'd paid. The Council's final note—"The Kaal waits. You are its vessel now."—lay tucked in his desk, its words a prophecy he couldn't escape.
Inside, the apartment was a fragile bubble of normalcy. Lakshmi prepared dinner, her laughter with Meera a rare, precious sound. Ramesh sat at the table, his health stabilizing, his eyes lingering on Shiva with a mix of pride and worry (The Hindu, June 1992). Meera, coloring a picture of a peacock, chattered about school, her nightmares now rare. The family's decision to stay in Bombay was a victory, but Shiva knew it was built on sand. The Council's defeat at Alibaug had crippled their operations—Arun Sethi's death in the fire, the woman's fate unknown—but their network was vast, their roots deep (Indian Express, June 1992).
Anita Desai's latest article had ignited public fury, linking Vishrambaug Enterprises to corruption and ritualistic crimes. The police were investigating, but Shiva doubted they'd pierce the Council's veil. The Kaal's power, now a part of him, whispered of larger battles—India's future, his family's safety, his own destiny. The shard, the burns, the visions—they were pieces of a puzzle he was only beginning to understand.
Vikram's wound was healing, his loyalty unshaken despite the scars of their fight. Priya's death—or sacrifice—lingered like a ghost, her role as Sparrow a question without answers. Was she a traitor, a victim, or something else? The Kaal's whispers offered glimpses—her face, her brother's frightened eyes—but no clarity. Shiva's rebirth, his mark, the Council's obsession—it all circled back to the Kaal, a force that bound time and choice, demanding sacrifice at every turn.
Shiva met Vikram at a bustling chai stall in Matunga, the air thick with the scent of spices and rain-damp earth. Vikram's grin was back, though tempered by caution. "Desai's digging deeper," he said, sliding a newspaper across the table. "She's got a lead on a Council safehouse in Delhi. Says it's tied to someone new—a name we haven't heard."
Shiva's burns pulsed, the Kaal stirring. "Who?"
"Rohini Malhotra," Vikram said, his voice low. "A politician, rising fast in the Congress party. Desai thinks she's the Council's new face, stepping in where Sethi fell."
Shiva's mind raced. A new player meant the Council was adapting, their plans unbroken by the Alibaug fire. "We need to confirm it," he said. "If she's in Delhi, we can't reach her—not yet. But if Desai's right, they're planning another ritual."
Vikram leaned forward, his eyes searching Shiva's face. "You're thinking of going after them, aren't you? Even after everything—Priya, the fire, your family almost leaving."
Shiva's hand tightened around the shard in his pocket. "I have to. The Kaal's in me, Vikram. I can't run from it. If I don't stop them, they'll come for us again."
Vikram sighed, rubbing his shoulder. "Then we do it smart. No more charging in. We get Desai's intel, build a case, maybe even get the cops involved—clean ones, if they exist."
Shiva nodded, though doubt gnawed at him. The Kaal's power was a double-edged sword, guiding him but also binding him to the Council's game. "We start with Desai," he said. "But we keep it quiet. No one else—not even my family."
Vikram's expression darkened. "You're still shutting them out, Shiva. They deserve to know what you're fighting for."
"They wouldn't understand," Shiva said, his voice low. The truth—his rebirth, the Kaal's mark—would terrify them, fracture the fragile trust he'd rebuilt. "Not yet."
That afternoon, Shiva visited Anita Desai at her office, a cramped space in Fort cluttered with newspapers and cigarette ash. Desai's sharp eyes studied him, her pen poised over a notepad. "You're persistent, I'll give you that," she said. "The Alibaug photos were gold, but they're not enough. Malhotra's the key now. My source says she's meeting Council members in Delhi next week—a ritual, maybe, like the ones you described."
Shiva's burns pulsed, the Kaal confirming her words. "Where in Delhi? And who's your source?"
Desai's smile was wry. "Slow down, kid. My source is anonymous, and they're scared. The meeting's at a private estate in Mehrauli, heavily guarded. I'm sending a photographer, but I need more—documents, witnesses. Can you get me anything?"
Shiva hesitated, the shard's weight grounding him. "I'll try. But if Malhotra's Council, she's dangerous. Be careful."
Desai laughed, a rough sound. "I've been chasing stories like this for years. I know the game. Just get me what I need, and we'll bury them."
As Shiva left, the Kaal's whispers grew louder, showing him fragments—a woman's face, Malhotra's, her eyes glowing with the same power as the warehouse orb. The Council wasn't just regrouping; they were escalating, and he was running out of time.
That evening, Shiva returned home, the apartment warm with the scent of dal and rice. Lakshmi greeted him with a cautious smile, Meera tugging at his hand to show him her latest drawing—a family under a bright sun. Ramesh looked up from his paper, his gaze softer but still probing. "You're late again," he said, his voice gentle. "Everything alright?"
"Yeah," Shiva lied, forcing a smile. "Just college stuff."
Meera's eyes narrowed, her child's intuition sharp. "You're fighting the bad men again, aren't you, bhai?"
Shiva's heart ached. He knelt beside her, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I'm keeping them away, Meera. I promise."
Lakshmi's hand rested on his shoulder, her touch a lifeline. "Be careful, Shiva. We can't lose you."
The words were a weight, anchoring him to the family he'd nearly lost. But as he hugged Meera, a new note slipped under the door, its presence a cold shock. He retrieved it, the All-Seeing Eye stark against the paper: "The Kaal chooses its champions. Delhi awaits."
His burns flared, the shard in his pocket warming. The Kaal was calling him to the next battle, to Rohini Malhotra, to the Council's heart. But the visions it showed—blood, fire, a betrayal deeper than Priya's—warned of a cost he might not survive.
Later that night, Shiva met Vikram at the beach, the Arabian Sea a dark expanse under a starless sky. The shard's pulse synced with the waves, the Kaal's power a tide pulling him forward. "We're going to Delhi," Shiva said, his voice resolute. "Malhotra's the key. We end this there."
Vikram's face was grim, but his nod was firm. "Together. But Shiva, those marks—they're changing you. Promise me you'll stay you."
Shiva's burns glowed, the Kaal's whispers a promise and a threat. "I'll try," he said, but the weight of his destiny was heavier than ever. The Council's shadow was vast, but so was his will, forged in fire and sacrifice.
As they planned, the Kaal showed him one final vision—Malhotra's face, a new orb glowing in her hands, and a figure in the shadows, their identity hidden but their power immense. The game was shifting, and Shiva was no longer just a player—he was the board itself.
Foreshadow & Reflection
As Shiva stood with Vikram, the Kaal's pulse thrummed in his veins, a harbinger of the war to come. Unbeknownst to him, Rohini Malhotra was not just a Council leader but a vessel for the Kaal's ancient will, her ritual poised to reshape time itself. A new figure, their face obscured, moved through Delhi's shadows, their allegiance a mystery that would unravel Shiva's world. The shadows of destiny were closing in, and the final battle would demand everything he had left.