Ira recoiled, her mind spinning.

  I’ve been here before? The words didn’t make sense. She had never been to Dharmagaon—she couldn’t have.

  “I don’t remember this place,” Ira said, her voice barely a whisper.

  Ama Dey’s smile deepened, but there was no warmth in it—only a cold, unsettling knowing.

  “You wouldn’t,” she said. “The Kala hides it from you. You were here as a child, Ira. Long ago, when your mother came to study the village. She left... but you stayed.”

  Ira’s breath caught. Her mother.

  “I was just a baby. She—she couldn’t have left me here,” Ira stammered, shaking her head.

  “Not of her own will,” Ama replied, her hands folding in her lap like something folded in a coffin. “You and your mother both came to Dharmagaon seeking answers. But what you found was not knowledge. It was binding. The mountain takes what it needs.”

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Ira stood abruptly, her knees weak.

  Her mind was racing, but the words kept colliding into walls of disbelief.

  What do you mean? What are you talking about?

  Ama’s hands reached for the stone again, her fingers curling around it like an ancient relic.

  “You left, but it followed you. Your mother—your real mother—was never meant to raise you. You belonged here, in Dharmagaon, in the mountain. The Kala remembers every soul it claims.”

  She paused, letting the words hang in the air between them.

  “Your mother’s blood is here. But it is not yours. You are the other—the one who does not belong. And now, it is time to come back.”

  Ira stumbled back, her pulse thundering in her ears.

  “Come back?” she echoed, voice trembling. “What are you saying?”

  Ama’s eyes flickered to the black stone.

  “There is no escaping the mountain, Ira. Not anymore.”