Anaya had sworn never to return. Not to India. Not to her past. And certainly not to anything remotely connected to Rajveer. But here she was, walking into a castle she hadn’t even known existed until last week. A castle that now held the fate of her younger sister—and, if she wasn’t careful, her own soul.
She wasn’t here for nostalgia or closure. She was here to stop the wedding.
Letting this marriage happen?
Not again.
Not to her sister.
Inside, the scent of dust and roses hit her nose like a memory soaked in decay. Velvet curtains lined the hallway like funeral drapes. Servants bowed as she passed, but their eyes—those darting eyes—looked away too quickly.
Like they knew something.
Like they saw something they weren’t supposed to.
Her heels clicked against the marble floor as she slowed her pace. Goosebumps lifted across her skin, and she glanced upward—instinct more than curiosity.
For a second, her breath caught.
There.
High above, in the tallest tower, stood a woman draped in crimson. Her posture still, her face unreadable. Just… watching.
A blink later, the figure was gone.
Only a whisper remained.
“Welcome home, little storm.”
Anaya shivered.
It wasn’t the kind of chill that came from cold air. It was deeper. Like something old had remembered her—and was glad she’d returned.
She reached her room in silence. Her luggage was already there, neatly placed beside a carved wooden armoire that looked centuries old. Everything about this place felt theatrical. A set built for a ghost story.
She kicked off her heels, unwrapped her beige coat, and tossed it onto the bed. Her black dress clung to her skin as she walked to the window and stared out into the courtyard below. Mist coiled between hedges like snakes, and the sky was already darkening.
There were no city lights. No hum of traffic. Just silence. The kind that pressed on your ears and made your thoughts sound louder than they were.
She didn’t like it.
A knock came at the door.
Anaya turned, sharp as a blade. “Yes?”
The door creaked open.
It was a girl—young, no older than seventeen—with wide eyes and trembling hands.
“Dinner will be served in the red hall,” she said quietly. “Your sister is waiting.”
Anaya offered a curt nod. “Thank you.”
The girl didn’t leave immediately. She lingered, lips parting like she wanted to say something more. Warn her, maybe.
But fear won.
She bowed quickly and fled.
Anaya stared at the door after it shut. Something about this place was wrong. Not just creepy-wrong. Off. The kind of wrong you couldn’t see but could feel in your teeth.
She dressed down slightly for dinner—still in black, but softer now. Loose silk pants, a sleeveless blouse. She didn’t dress for others anymore. Her family hated her style, said she brought shame. Said her bare arms and painted lips were signs of corruption.
Good.
Let them choke on her freedom.
The red hall was exactly what it promised—red velvet chairs, red drapes, a massive crimson chandelier dripping with candlelight. And there, seated at the center of a long table, was Mira.
Her sister.
Bright-eyed. Nervous.
Too young to wear a ring from a man like Rajveer.
Mira stood as soon as she saw Anaya and ran into her arms.
“Didi,” she whispered. “You came.”
Anaya held her tightly, pushing down the anger threatening to boil over.
“I’ll always come,” she murmured.
They ate together, mostly in silence. Other guests arrived—relatives, old money types, and a few aristocrats Rajveer’s family had invited. Their eyes wandered, measuring Anaya like a curiosity, a scandal in heels.
She let them look.
Let them wonder if she was going to ruin everything again.
Spoiler: she was.
Later that night, after Mira had gone to bed and the hallways had emptied out, Anaya returned to her room. The air felt different now. Thicker.
As she shut the door, the lamp on her dresser flickered. Then again.
Then it went out.
The room plunged into shadows.
Anaya turned to relight it—but something stopped her.
A sound.
Like breathing.
But not hers.
Slow. Deep. Behind her.
She spun, fists clenched.
Nothing.
No one.
Except…
In the mirror.
Not her reflection.
A woman in red.
Standing behind her in the glass.
Watching her with golden eyes that glowed like embers. A slow smile curved her lips.
“Welcome to the cage,” the woman whispered, voice like ash and silk.
Anaya didn’t move. Couldn’t.
The woman in the mirror raised one finger and dragged it down the glass.
A long, shrill crack followed.
The mirror split—clean, vertical, like a wound.
Then the image faded.
Gone.
Anaya staggered back, heart pounding so hard it echoed in her ears.
She didn’t scream. Didn’t cry.
But the words burned in her mind, haunting and strange.
Welcome home, little storm.
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