MEERA'S POV

I blinked hard, shaking my head just slightly, as if the motion could scatter away the strange warmth pooling in my chest.

Bas, Meera... hosh mein aa. Ye sab kuch sahi nahi hai.
(Enough, Meera... come to your senses. This is nothing.)

My lips parted before I could stop them, and the words slipped out, soft and hesitant.
"Gora Sahib... ab hum apne aap likhkar dekhein?"
(Gora Sahib... may I try writing by myself now?)

He looked at me—just for a moment. Two seconds. Maybe less.

But in those two seconds, something flickered in his eyes. Not surprise. Not hesitation. Just a kind of quiet... understanding.

Then he gave a slight nod.

"Okay. Try... just like I showed you. Hold the feather lightly—like this," he said, gesturing with his hand in the air, his voice calm, composed. "And don't press it too harshly on the paper. It'll blot."

I listened carefully. Every word.

"Ji," I replied in a low breath. A simple word. But it held everything—my nervousness, my obedience, and something else I couldn't name.

I turned toward the parchment slowly, the quill now resting in my fingers. It felt more like holding my breath than holding a feather.

The ink pot glistened faintly under the muted light filtering through the wooden window. The room was quiet again—still, except for the soft tick of the wall clock and the faraway rustle of leaves dancing in the courtyard breeze.

Now it's just me...
And this white, sheet.

My hand trembled slightly as I dipped the quill into the ink. The black liquid clung to the nib like a secret waiting to be spilled. I brought it over to the paper and pressed—just a little—remembering his voice.

Don't press it too harshly... it'll blot.

I pulled in a shallow breath.

And I wrote.

A single line. Then a broken curve.

The letter wasn't perfect—shaky at the edges, awkward in its posture—but it was mine. A creation born from trembling fingers and a heart that beat far too loudly in that quiet room.

With each new attempt, my confidence wavered and returned, like waves lapping shyly at a shore. I tried to remember the shapes he'd shown me, the pressure of his hand guiding mine just minutes ago.

Now, only a soft ache remained where his touch had been.

I bit the inside of my cheek, concentrating hard, tracing another letter slowly.

One after another.

Ink. Pause. Breathe. Try again.

Time felt blurred—soft and slow.

Until—

A sharp voice echoed from beyond the walls.

The voice was loud—urgent. Male. One of the local workers, perhaps. The sound broke through the stillness like a stone thrown into water.

I looked up instinctively, startled.

Gora Sahib's expression changed just slightly—his jaw tightening with subtle alertness. He stood from the chair without saying anything at first, brushing his hands against the side of his coat.

Then he turned to me with a gentle calm.

"You keep writing, alright?" he said, softly. "I'll be back in a moment."

His words were simple, but there was something in his tone—something that reassured and lingered.

I nodded, quickly lowering my eyes before he could read what I didn't know how to hide.

And then, he was gone.

The wooden door creaked softly as he stepped out, letting in a small breeze scented with dust and distance.

And just like that, the room felt a little emptier.

The chair across from me stood vacant.

His absence hung in the air like perfume fading into silence.

I stared at the half-finished letters on the parchment before me. Ink still glistened on the last stroke I'd made. My fingers curled around the quill once more.

ARTHUR'S POV

Just as I was guiding Meera's fingers along the parchment, watching her hesitant strokes slowly gain shape and rhythm, a voice echoed faintly from outside the bungalow walls.

It was distant—muffled by thick stone and the closed wooden doors—but distinct enough to draw my attention.

I glanced at her one last time—her brows furrowed in concentration, lips parted slightly as if whispering the shapes of letters in her head.

"You keep trying," I said gently. "I'll be back in a moment."

As I stepped out onto the wide, arched veranda, the late afternoon sun spilled across the sandstone tiles like molten gold, painting the ground in warm, honeyed shadows. The air was dry—still, except for the occasional gust of wind rustling through the brittle leaves of the trees that bordered the bungalow like silent sentinels. Dust danced in the light, swirling briefly before settling once again on the earth.

The world beyond was quiet. 

Waiting at the edge of the steps was a British junior officer, his uniform crisp despite the heat, the brass buttons of his jacket gleaming faintly in the sun. He nodded respectfully, but his eyes were steady, almost urgent.

"Mr. Blake," he said, voice formal, "The Commissioner requests your presence at the Nilavan Residency. It's urgent."

I straightened, brushing off the faint dust that had settled on my cuff. My brows furrowed slightly.

"At this hour?" I asked. "Who summoned me?"

"The British Commissioner of Nilavan District, Sir," he replied swiftly, no room for speculation in his tone.

A sudden sense of unease stirred in me. What could possibly be urgent enough to demand my presence just before sunset?

I descended the steps slowly, the soft thud of my boots on sandstone fading into the quiet. The earthy scent of the dry land clung to the air. Beyond the neem trees, under the dappled shadows, a black barouche carriage awaited—its polished wooden frame glinting with hints of brass along the hinges and wheel rims. The vehicle looked dignified, but not ostentatious—fitting for official business.

The horse tethered to it—a tall, mixture of  jet-black and brown stallion with a glossy coat—stamped its hoof once, snorting as the reins were steadied by a young Indian coachman. The youngman , wore a faded turban and a white cotton kurta. He gave a respectful bow, eyes cast downward.

I nodded in return and gripped the cool, worn leather of the carriage handle. The hinges gave a soft groan as I stepped inside.

I settled into the back seat. The carriage groaned lightly as it adjusted to my weight. The leather beneath me was cracked but familiar—one of the many things in this land that aged quickly under the sun.

With a sharp flick of the reins and a barked command in Hindi from the coachman, the horse began its slow, rhythmic trot. The wheels crunched over the dry path, stirring up thin clouds of dust. Behind us, the bungalow faded into the landscape, its red sloping roof catching the final glint of the day's light like a farewell.

We moved through the outer village first—past drying hay stacks, silent huts, and still wells where women had long since drawn the day's last bucket. Tall grass brushed against the wheels as we followed the winding path toward Nilavan town. Occasionally, a startled bird flew up from the bushes, its wings cutting through the thick evening air.

As we neared Nilavan, The roads grew smoother, paved with old cobblestones that clicked under the iron wheels. Colonial architecture emerged in clean symmetry—low, whitewashed buildings with tall columns, trimmed hedges, and brass plaques on the doors. Government offices, tax halls, the post, the barracks—each building wore its function plainly, without a trace of charm.

The carriage slowed as we approached the Commissioner's Residency—a grand, weathered structure from the early years of Crown rule. Its facade was painted in pale ivory, though years of monsoon stains and dust storms had left their signature. Ivy crept up one side of the building, its green fingers clutching at the cracked plaster.

Guards stood at the iron gate in perfect stillness, their rifles upright, their eyes scanning the road. One of them stepped forward to open the gate as the carriage rolled in.

I disembarked and was immediately greeted by a butler in white livery. "This way, Sir," he said, guiding me across the gravel driveway and up the marble steps.

Inside, the Residency , The high ceilings arched above me like the ribs of a cathedral, their beams darkened by age. Sunlight filtered through long drapes, casting soft shadows across the floor. The hush was broken only by the distant click of booted heels and the low murmur of English voices. The walls were lined with massive oil paintings—portraits of solemn men in starched uniforms, their gazes stern and their frames .

We passed tall doors and polished brass handles, maps of British India framed in heavy oak, and glass display cases filled with rare fossils and labeled insects from some expedition long forgotten.

At the far end of the hallway, the door to the Commissioner's office stood open.

Inside, seated behind a heavy mahogany desk, was Sir Alistair Hambleton, the British Commissioner of Nilavan. His desk was perfectly organized—files stacked with clinical precision, a crystal inkwell at the corner, and a half-finished cup of tea beside a leather-bound journal.

He didn't look up as I entered.

"Mr. Blake," he said evenly, flipping through a document with a pen between his fingers, "We have a matter that requires your immediate attention."

The weight in his tone gave me pause.

Finally, he looked up.

His eyes—sharp, pale blue behind round spectacles—locked onto mine with quiet intensity. His voice, when it came, was low and deliberate.

"You understand, Blake," he began, "that only you and I know the real reason you've been stationed here... in India."

His words fell like a stone into still water, sending invisible ripples through the room.

I said nothing, but straightened my posture.

He continued, fingers steepled now on the desk between us.

"On paper, you're a surveyor. A quiet functionary here to assist with boundary revisions and land documentation. Useful. Innocuous." A flicker of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "But we both know that's just the façade."

He rose slowly, walking to a cabinet where he poured himself a short glass of whisky. The amber liquid caught the orange light as he swirled it once, lost in thought.

"You were sent here," he said, turning to face me, "because the Crown suspects there is rot in our ranks. Not from without, but from within."

I remained still. Silent.

He took a sip, then continued, voice quieter, harder.

"There are British officers—our own men—engaged in corruption of the highest order. Embezzlement. Bribes. Illegal land seizures. Opium trade. Quiet dealings with native zamindars in exchange for gold, favors... or worse. And these aren't petty clerks, Blake. These are men who dine with governors, sign decrees, and wear the Queen's seal on their breast."

His eyes narrowed.

"The Empire cannot afford this kind of sickness. Not here. Not now—not with rebellion still buried shallow in the soil."

I gave a small nod. "Yes, Sir."

He turned back toward the desk, then leaned forward, voice now just above a whisper.

"This mission—your mission—must remain absolutely invisible. You observe. You collect names. You track every document, every transaction, every silent exchange. But you do not act—unless you are certain. If you make one wrong move, even a whisper of suspicion, they'll vanish. Documents burned. Trails scrubbed. You'll be hunting shadows."

He let that sink in, then walked to the window. Outside, the sun had begun to melt behind the hills of Nilavan, casting gold and blood-orange streaks across the dry earth.

"I placed you here for a reason," he said without turning. "Nilavan has changed. Land tax records spiked with no explanation. Grain shipments missing. Officers promoted with unnatural speed. Something is moving beneath the surface. And you are to follow every thread."

He turned back to face me fully.

"You've made progress?"

I nodded again. "I've identified three officers. Possibly four. Spread between Nilavan, Rajgarh, and Barwani. They're involved in treasury manipulation, falsified land reports, and enforcement cover-ups. Their accounts don't match their salaries. And their habits... have changed."

He stilled, the whisky glass held just below his lips.

"But," I continued, "I don't intend to expose them yet."

He lowered the glass. "Why?"

"They've grown cautious. Someone has warned them—barely, but enough. They've changed meeting places, avoided routine gatherings. That tells me they're not acting alone. If I act now, I'll net a few fish. But I want the whale."

He nodded slowly, brows drawn tight.

"I expected that. But remember: no one can suspect you. If your identity is compromised—if even one man begins to doubt who you are—the rest will close ranks. You'll be cut off. And if any of these men have friends in Calcutta or London..."

He didn't need to finish.

I spoke quietly, with conviction.

"That's why I don't mingle. I stay distant. I avoid their dinners. I don't smoke with them. I speak only when required. I've made myself... forgettable."

I paused, then added, "I have a man. Local. He works within the towns—temple grounds, ledgers, merchant posts. He passes messages in coded reports. We never speak directly. They don't suspect him. Not yet."

Sir Alistair's lips drew into a hard line. His gaze lingered on me with something like reluctant admiration.

"Good," he said finally. "That's why you were chosen. You are a shadow. And that makes you dangerous."

He moved to the drawer behind his desk and removed a slim, leather folder, sealed with red wax.

"This is your another official lead. Read it in private. Burn it after."

I stepped forward, the leather warm in my hands despite the chill in the air.

He walked back to the window, shoulders silhouetted by the sinking sun.

"You're playing a long game, Blake. And if you're successful—if you truly bring down this network—then it won't just be this district you've saved. You'll have spared the Crown a scandal too great to contain."

I gave a quiet bow. "I understand, Sir."

He didn't look back.

I turned, walking across the cool marble floor as my boots echoed faintly through the corridor. The grand doors closed behind me with a weighty thud, like the sealing of fate.

The barouche carriage rolled to a halt just as the last streaks of dusk began to melt into the darkening sky. 

I went  slowly toward the bungalow—the familiar shape of it glowing faintly under the flickering lanterns hung by the side arches.

i remembered 
Meera.
I hadn't told her.

In my hurry to respond to Sir Hambleton's sudden summons, I had left without a word. No explanation. No message. The realization coiled in my chest like guilt—cold and immediate. She had been learning to write today... sitting beside me, hesitant and brave. And I had vanished mid-moment, mid-teaching..

I sighed and stepped toward the bungalow gates,when—

I saw her.

For a second, my breath lodged itself in my throat. Just froze.

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