Threads of Fate

Chapter Three: The Carousal of Secrets

Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The historical elements referenced are inspired by Indian heritage but have been adapted for the purposes of this narrative.

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The Southbank carousel was a ghost of its daytime self. In the daylight, it was a whirl of children’s laughter and sugary churros. At midnight, under a bruised London sky, the painted horses looked like frozen monsters, their wooden eyes gleaming in the amber streetlights.

Maya stood by the railing, the Thames churning like black ink below her. She clutched the 1924 photograph in her pocket. The man in the picture—the one who looked exactly like Rohan—haunted her. Was he a ghost? A descendant? Or was time itself failing?

"You're late, Maya. In the old days, that would have cost you a kingdom."

Maya spun around. It wasn’t Rohan. Standing by the ticket booth was a woman wrapped in a heavy silk sari that seemed too thin for the London cold. Her hair was silver, braided with jasmine flowers that shouldn't have been blooming in November.

"Ishani?" Maya whispered, recognizing her cousin from Jaipur. But this wasn't the flighty, social-media-obsessed Ishani she knew. Her cousin’s eyes were clouded with cataracts, yet she looked directly at Maya with terrifying clarity.

"Ishani is at home, sleeping," the woman said, her voice echoing with a strange, double-toned quality. "I am merely using her breath. I am the Oracle of the North Gate, and I have come to tell you that Rohan Varma is not your ally. He is your shadow."

"He has the compass," Maya argued, stepping forward. "He knew about the double-grid system!"

"Because his family stole it!" the woman hissed. The carousel suddenly groaned to life, the calliope music playing a distorted, minor-key melody. The wooden horses began to spin, faster and faster, until they were a blur of gold and red. "The Varmas were never the Gurus. They were the Executioners. They were sent to kill your bloodline three centuries ago, and he has returned to finish the task Vikram Singhania started with a pen."

Maya’s head throbbed. "I don't believe you. He saved me in the library."

"He saved the Map," the woman corrected. "Look at the feather, Maya."

Maya pulled the peacock feather from her pocket. It wasn't just blood-red anymore. It was turning to ash, the tiny barbs dissolving into a fine, grey powder that smelled of funeral pyres.

"Vikram wants your land," the Oracle whispered as the carousel reached a deafening speed. "But Rohan wants your soul. To open the Seal, he needs the heart of a Jaipuria heir. Why do you think he’s been following you through every lifetime?"

The carousel lights suddenly exploded in a shower of sparks. In the split second of darkness, Maya felt a hand clamp over her mouth and a strong arm wrap around her waist, pulling her behind a stone pillar.

The scent of rain and crushed marigolds filled her senses.

"Don't scream," a voice hissed into her ear. It was Rohan. He was breathing hard, his leather jacket torn. "That isn't your cousin, Maya. Look at the ground."

Maya looked. Where the woman had been standing, there were no footprints. Instead, there was a scorched circle of grass, and inside it, a modern tracker—the kind used by elite private security.

"Vikram’s men are using holographic tech to mess with your head," Rohan whispered, his eyes scanning the shadows. "They want us to turn on each other. But we have to go. Now. My flight to Jaipur leaves in three hours, and you’re on the ticket next to mine."

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Maya looked from the charred ground to Rohan’s desperate face. Behind him, across the river, the giant digital billboard on the Shell Centre flickered. The advertisement for Vikram’s new mall disappeared, replaced by a single sentence in glowing Sanskrit:

पुनरागमनं कुरु (Return to the Beginning)

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"I can't go to India, Rohan," Maya whispered, her phone vibrating in her pocket. She pulled it out. It was a picture message from an unknown number—a live photo of her Dadi-sa in Jaipur, sleeping in her bed, while a red laser dot rested directly on her forehead.

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The text below it read: Sign the contract, Maya. Or the grandmother doesn't wake up.

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The stakes just went global! Maya is caught between a billionaire's threat and a scholar's mystery. Who should she trust??

Poll Time: Is Rohan really a "Shadow Executioner," or is Vikram playing a high-tech mind game? Vote in the comments! 🗳️!!!!

Catch you all in the next chapter!!!xoxo